


All Hale

by dornfelder



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Peter being Peter, Post season 3a, Sex Pollen, Threesome - M/M/M, Ultimately Sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes from the absence of warmth at his back and the sound of a toilet flushing. He moves his tongue from where it’s stuck to his palate and filling his mouth with the taste of stale death. Blinking gritty, itching eyes open, he finds the world too bright, too real to deal with just yet. He snuggles up closer to Derek, burrowing into his bulk. Derek’s reaction is a content rumble. He pulls Stiles closer. Beard stubble grazes his neck as Derek opens one sleepy eye.</p><p>Wait – <i>wait. What. The fuck?</i></p><p>Stiles sits up. Derek’s arm falls from his waist and he watches Derek’s eyes grow wide with dawning horror that mirrors his own.</p><p>“Good morning, my lovelies,” Peter’s cheerful voice announces from the doorstep. “Rise and shine. Early wolf catches the deer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hale

**Author's Note:**

> The Sterek (Steter) fic of doom that has been sitting in my WIP files for-fucking-ever. Unbeta'd because I didn't have the patience, or the time, and I just need this fic to not sit in my WIP file anymore. Very likely my last Teen Wolf fic, the one that put up quite a fight because it just didn't want to be written.

**I**

Stiles wakes from the absence of warmth at his back and the sound of a toilet flushing. He moves his tongue from where it’s stuck to his palate and filling his mouth with the taste of stale death. Blinking gritty, itching eyes open, he finds the world too bright, too real to deal with just yet. He snuggles up closer to Derek, burrowing into his bulk. Derek’s reaction is a content rumble. He pulls Stiles closer. Beard stubble grazes his neck as Derek opens one sleepy eye.

Wait – _wait. What. The fuck?_

Stiles sits up. Derek’s arm falls from his waist and he watches Derek’s eyes grow wide with dawning horror that mirrors his own.

“Good morning, my lovelies,” Peter’s cheerful voice announces from the doorstep. “Rise and shine. Early wolf catches the deer.”

 

****

II

Stiles stumbles into the bathroom with a foggy brain and pulls the door shut behind him. He winces at the piss stench coming from the toilet. His bladder is killing him, so he takes his dick in hand, hissing as he touches a sore spot by accident, and takes aim from as far away as possible. He washes his hands, then bends down to drink right from the faucet, rinsing and spitting the first mouthful before gulping down water in greedy, grateful swallows.

Turning the faucet off again, he takes a short look around, still somewhat disoriented. The place is tiny, five square feet tops, and filthy. Mold grows on the tiled walls and the shower stall looks like it hasn’t been cleaned – or used – in ages.

The sink is neat in comparison, but the mirror above is covered with a thick layer of grime and dirt, the glass cracked and crumbling away at the edges. The bar of hand soap looks like it wouldn’t do much in terms of actual cleaning. Stiles winces in disgust. How could these guys stand to live in this shithole?

The hunters. Right. Stiles stares at his reflection in the mirror and is left with a flood of images and memories from last night.

_Well, shit._

Stiles swallows, watches his Adam’s apple bob. The hickey right next to it stands out in a way that screams ‘got laid’ in neon advertising letters. Not that he needs the visual reminder: he feels it, everywhere. Bruises on his hips, stubble burn all over his throat, hickeys and a few smarting bite marks, aching thigh muscles from all the bending he did – tuns out he’s pretty versatile, yeah, very funny. Pun _not_ appreciated, thank you very much.

His ass is sore. So is his dick. His lips are plumper than usual and swollen. Stiles licks them and is rewarded with a vivid flashback of Peter’s dick sliding in and out of his mouth. He swallows, flushing red, and his traitorous dick twitches.

“Stiles?” Derek asks from the other side of the door. Stiles flinches and turns his head toward the door. “Are you okay?”

Good question. Seeing as he’s turned on and grossed out in equal measures, a really, really good question.

“Yeah,” Stiles croaks out. “Just – give me a minute.” A minute. An hour. A lifetime of trying to get over the fact that he was poisoned with some kind of wolfsbane drug and had sex with Derek and Peter Hale last night.

A lifetime might not be enough.

 

****

III

The message comes in at half past nine. _Where is Scott?_

 _Out of town,_ Stiles types back and focuses on his homework again, an economics essay for Finstock, something about stock exchange that would be a thousand times more interesting if Stiles were invested, so to speak. Instead he’s skimming through the bestiary at the side. Deaton’s bestiary, not Gerard’s, which is simultaneously a thousand times more exciting and more intimidating. Fewer pictures, more information. His phone beeps. _When will he be back?_

Stiles doesn’t bother with another message, just dials. Derek picks up after the third ring. “You’re out of luck,” Stiles tells him. “His dad picked him up for a father-son bonding weekend. Hiking in the woods. Somewhere. Or fishing? Canoeing? I have no idea. What’s up?”

“Peter and I spotted a couple of hunters in town the other day. They were sneaking around on Beacon Hills territory.”

Stiles puts a lid on his pen. “Did you call Allison? Chris?”

“I’d like to find out what they’re up to first.”

“Where have you seen them?”

“Hill Valley. They’re living at the edge of town but take turns driving into the preserve. I need to track them down.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. “What about Isaac?” A pause, and Stiles imagines Derek shaking his head. “He’s his own person, you know, he doesn’t need Scott’s permission to go anywhere. Just call him, okay?"

Another moment of silence.

“That’s not how it works,” Derek says, and nothing else. Stiles has heard it before from Scott. Something about werewolf etiquette that Scott doesn’t actually care about but that seems weirdly important to Derek.

“One day, you’ll have to show me those stone tablets with the sacred scribbling,” Stiles says.

“Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, balancing his pen between his fingers. “Fine, okay. You want me to come?” It’s not as if he has anything better to do. Scott is out of town, Isaac is _somewhere_ , bonding with Melissa and shopping for new scarves or whatever. Lydia and Allison are on a weekend trip to some kind of wellness resort. Girl bonding time. Going by the expression on Allison’s face, she wasn’t very enthusiastic at the prospect of having to suffer the inconveniences of a massage, a pedicure and God knows what else is on Lydia’s schedule, but since she owes Lydia from various occasions, she didn’t complain. Much.

“I’ll ask Peter,” Derek says, resigned, and Stiles is all focus again.

“Dude. You know the rules.” Never go anywhere with Peter alone. Never go anywhere with Peter, period.

Derek sighs, sounding vaguely annoyed. “He’s my uncle, Stiles.”

“Yeah, tell me something new.” Stiles gets up from his chair, grabbing his bag. “Can you pick me up in ten?” It’s poker night with the deputies and his dad won’t be back before midnight. They have a designated driver, meaning he won’t be sober either, probably head off to bed right away.

“If you’re sure,” Derek says and Stiles can’t read him at all, whether he is resigned to his fate or maybe even expected the outcome.

 

****

IV

Hill Valley, on the southern river bank down the river right before it takes a turn to the west, is smaller than Beacon Hills, but more upscale. Where Beacon Hills is blue collar and small middle class families, Hill Valley has the greater mansions, the bigger pools, the shinier cars. But it also has a few run-down areas of cheap apartment housing, which is where Peter, for some reason he doesn’t care to elaborate, first saw the hunters.

It’s too close to Beacon Hills. Definitely pack territory, Argent territory if nothing else. And since Scott’s pack is the only one in a two hundred miles radius, they’re very likely here to fuck things up.

“Why didn’t you follow them right away?” Stiles says.

“They took me by surprise,” Derek admits grudgingly. “I can’t outrun an SUV, not all the way up to the mountains.”

“Well,” Peter says from the backseat, and even though Stiles initially insisted on shotgun, he’s been regretting his decision for the last hour. It’s plain creepy, having Peter in his back. “As an alpha, you could have.”

A muscle in Derek’s jaw clenches. He stares straight ahead, not saying anything. Not for the first time Stiles wonders whether he regrets giving up his powers. He never said anything, but then, he isn’t exactly the talkative type.

“Dude, can you stop that? It’s really getting old,” Stiles tells Peter. “Should we have put a GPS tracker on their car?” he asks Derek.

“Do you have one?”

“I could have borrowed one.”

With a significant sidelong glance, Derek shrugs. “We’ll just have to wait.”

“How do you know they’ll be going to the preserve tonight?”

“I don’t.”

“Great,” Stiles says. “Just great.”

“No one _made_ you come.”

“ _Rules_ , Derek!”

“What rules?” Peter asks from the backseat, and Stiles and Derek exchange a glance. Derek’s expression is suspiciously close to a smirk. Stiles suppresses a grin. Peter’s palpable frustration is the sweetest of rewards.

Light goes out in the apartment across the street, and Stiles sits up straight. “Here we go.”

Derek starts the engine. A few minutes later, a guy in a plaid shirt with jeans and what looks like hiking boots steps out of the front door, a baseball cap obscuring the upper half of his face from the light of the street lamps. He’s carrying a six pack. As he puts it in the trunk, Stiles sees boxes full of groceries, milk, Pepsi, and toilet paper.

“Supply run?” Peter suggests. “Or are they skipping town?”

Plaid Shirt doesn’t bother to look around before he gets into the car to drive off. Stiles shakes his head. For a hunter, that guy isn’t nearly paranoid enough. But then, he probably hasn’t been stalked by dark druids, or found a fugitive werewolf in his room to get the scare of a lifetime.

Plaid Shirt leads them all the way through town, taking the same route as last time, according to Derek. Heading north, he chooses a road that will lead him back to Beacon Hills through the mountains, the eastern part of the preserve – it’s the long route, so Stiles doubts that Beacon Hills is where he’s heading. As they pass the city limit sign, Derek slows down, increasing the distance. Stiles fidgets in his seat, wishing they could go faster without raising suspicion. “Where is he going? What if we lose him?” He only shuts up as Derek groans in annoyance.

They follow Plaid Shirt all the way through the foothills. The advantage of taking the scenic route is that there’s basically no traffic, so they can easily follow his tail lights even if they lose sight of the SUV as the road winds uphill. The catch up to him right in time to see him take a turn to the left, where a narrow forest trail leads off the main road. Google maps shows a path that leads maybe a mile to the northwest, into the woods. Derek deliberately misses the turn, stopping the car roughly a hundred yards down the main road. Stiles unfastens his seat belt and opens the passenger door. “What?” he says as Derek stares at him. “No way, I’m not staying behind. Forget it.”

“Can you keep up?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Watch me,” Stiles says and gets out.

They go slow, looking out for possible traps. Derek, unsurprisingly, takes the lead. Peter is a silent presence at Stiles’ back. The wolves, of course, can see just fine in the dark while Stiles stumbles through the wood with all the stealth of a bull in a china shop. Now and then, Derek’s hand is on his arm to pull him upright and guide him. Once Stiles slips and almost tumbles down a slope, but Peter yanks him back up by his belt, steadying him with hands on the small of his back. “Fuck,” Stiles whispers, heart hammering. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Peter says dryly, hands lingering a second too long before he lets go and smacks Stiles’ ass.

Stiles squeaks. “What the fuck!” He turns his head to glare at Peter over his shoulder, rubbing his stinging ass.

“ _Quiet_ ,” Derek growls with a murderous glance at both of them.

After a few minutes, a car starts not too far away. Headlights appear on the trail seconds later. Ducking for cover behind rocks and trees, they watch the SUV pass by, moving on only after the sound of the engine has faded in the distance.

A few minutes later they reach a large clearing with a small cabin at its center. With the waxing moon partly hidden behind clouds and the blinds drawn shut, Stiles cannot see a lot except that the cabin is small, surrounded by a waist-high metal fence, and that two vehicles – a pick-up truck and a nondescript compact car – are parked outside the fence on the driveway. From Stiles’ perspective, the fence doesn’t look like it’s meant to keep intruders out, nothing at least that is larger than the occasional fox. Though it could still be electrified.

“What now?” he asks. Derek, on his left, doesn’t answer right away.

Peter inhales, sniffing. “Do you smell that?”

“Wolfsbane,” Derek says. “And peppermint, and... lemon balm? Other stuff too –”

“What,” Stiles says. “Is this some kind of, I don’t know, eco home slash herb garden? Why here?”

“I have no idea,” Derek says. “But we’ll find out. Stay here.” With that he’s on his way, a quick, silent shadow in the dark, approaching the cabin. Stiles holds his breath as Derek ducks behind the car and disappears from sight. Peter, on his other side, is quiet and tense. Derek reappears on the other side of the fence after a minute, inching closer to the window as Stiles exhales in relief. He moves cautiously and disappears into the shadows of the house.

“Can you see him?” Stiles whispers.

“He’s listening in,” Peter replies.

“Tell me he’s not going to do anything stupid,” Stiles says. Peter raises an eyebrow. “I thought we were only going to gather information.”

“Watching alone isn’t going to tell us anything,” Peter says. “If they’re not conveniently talking about their plans as we’re sitting here – unlikely, if you ask me – Derek won’t be getting any answers by pressing his ear to the wall.”

“He’s going to go in, isn’t he?” Stiles says.

“Derek doesn’t like not getting answers,” Peter says, and bares his teeth, just a little bit, that little snarl forming at the corner of his mouth. “Neither do I.” With a sudden, fluid movement, Peter is off and running towards the cars.

“Wait! Wait! ”

Peter pauses mid-run and turns his head, blue eyes glinting eerily in the dark. “ _Stay,_ ” he growls, a clear warning. With one big leap he’s gone from sight, vanished behind the car on the same route Derek has taken.

“Fuck,” Stiles spits out, “ _no way_ ,” and follows him.

 

****

V

The good news is that the fence isn’t electrified.

The bad news is that Stiles is running out of time, because while Peter is waiting beside the front door, Derek is nowhere to be seen and probably preparing to break in through the back door – assuming there is one – as Stiles advances on the cabin. The way his heart is pounding in his chest, he’s half convinced that the hunters are going to hear him. He manages to snatch a shovel from the pile of gardening tools lying around, so at least there’s that.

He squats down next to Peter, who doesn’t seem impressed by his presence. “What is the plan, huh? Are you just going to storm in there and hope that it’s not going to end in bloodshed and carnage? Or do you want it to end in bloodshed and carnage? I thought Derek knew better by now.”

“He does,” Peter says. “Which is why he’s going to give them a chance to explain themselves. We’re civilized people, Stiles.”

“ _Sure,_ ” Stiles says. “Especially you. But if he’s so reasonable, why isn’t he knocking on the front door?”

“Because he’s not stupid,” Peter explains to him, overly patient. “They are hunters, we wouldn’t want to give them an opportunity to shoot some of their wolfsbane at us if they don’t feel like talking. Derek’s going to break in, preferably quietly, to take them by surprise before they get their hands on their weapons.”

“That sounds like a really bad plan,” Stiles says.

“You have a better one?”

“We could wait for back-up.”

“And who would that be?” Peter asks, a hard look in his eyes. “Your little Scott, who has no idea what to do with his new alpha powers, and who, so far, hasn’t exactly excelled at cleaning up his messes? Chris Argent, who likely as not is going to take their side?”

“You can’t know that,” Stiles protests.

Peter’s hand comes up to squeeze his upper arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strong grip, meant to leave an impression. “Stop getting distracted, Stiles. Focus.” He leaves his hand there. Stiles shouldn’t feel reassured by the gesture. He opens his mouth, but Peter shushes him. “Derek says the back door is locked. How good are you at lockpicking?”

“On a scale of what?”

“Stiles.”

“I’m not bad.”

“Then go and help him. If anything comes up – if you need a distraction – let me know.”

“How?”

“The same way Derek did, by telling me, _quietly_ ,” Peter says. “Werewolf hearing. Focus, Stiles! Now go!”

Stiles goes.

The cabin really isn’t big. It’s only a couple of steps from the front door to the corner, another three steps to the window where Derek had stopped to listen in before, and Stiles can’t resist temptation, daring a look through the holey blinds just to see that there are at least two persons in the room, sitting in front of the TV. From what he can see, the room is a bit of a mess, old and run-down and inhabited by slobs.

“ _Move_ , Stiles,” Peter hisses, very quietly, from the corner of the house, and glares at him in the dark.

Right. Focus. Stiles moves past the window, intent on reaching the back of the cabin. Derek waits for him under the canopy, leaning against the back wall. His expression is unreadable in the dark, but if Stiles had to make an educated guess, he’d say that Derek isn’t too fond of his presence here either. Which isn’t surprising, but it still stings that he’s considered nothing but a liability.

Derek lets out an impatient huff, and right, Stiles is getting distracted again. He pulls out the picklocks he shouldn’t, theoretically, have, and wishes he had more light to work with as he crouches down to work on the door. A flashlight would be great. He’s literally flying blind and it’s not working.

After a couple of failed attempts, he bites his lips and sits back. He hits a stack of plastic watering cans and before he has time to register, they come tumbling down around him, causing a terrible racket. “Shit,” Stiles hisses. “Fuck, I’m sorry –”

Derek doesn’t wait to hear his apology. One kick and the back door flies open. Derek darts inside. Stiles follows, a tight grip on his shovel, ready to duck the second it looks like shots will be fired. Peering around the corner into the living room, he sees three people, two men and a woman. One of the men man, tall and dark-haired with a full beard, reaches for a gun even as Derek barrels into him to wrestle him to the floor.

The other one, sturdy, shirtless and hairy and caught in the act of pouring himself a glass of liquor, might be tequila, throws the bottle at Derek and darts for the gun on the kitchen counter. The woman takes cover behind the bed and watches from wide, dark eyes as Derek grows fangs and claws and attempts to disarm the man beneath him.

Peter barrels in through the front door. Picking up the gun, Shirtless Guy fires in his direction, not even taking aim. Peter throws himself to the side just in time, snarling and wolfing out completely, obtaining blueish dark skin in the process.

Another shot, fired by Derek’s bearded opponent, goes off into the wooden ceiling. Derek snarls and tries to get a hold of the gun, but the guy manages to keep if out of reach. He doesn’t seem intimidated by two-hundred pounds of pissed-off werewolf, which isn’t exactly a surprise but still a pity.

The best course of action, Stiles decides, is to stay out of it, half-hidden behind the corner, but he still tries to get a glimpse of what the woman is up to. She is crouching beside the bed. He gets another look at her face and mentally revises his first impression: not a woman, a girl, a few years older than him at the very most, her short hair a riot of red. She doesn’t seem to have a gun. Stiles, still holding his shovel, has no idea know what to do, not even if he could get to her, but for that, he’d have to pass Derek and Bearded Guy wrestling on the floor. And then what? That’s when she catches sight of him and flinches, ducking even further.

Before Shirtless Guy can get in another shot, Peter throws himself at him with utter disregard for anything in his way, like the kitchen counter with its piles of dishware, bottles and packages. Everything hits the floor the same time Peter and the hunter do, glass breaking. Stiles winces as he sees and hears the destruction unfold, briefly distracted from the girl who uses the exact moment to hurl something across the room.

It looks like a test tube. It breaks upon the impact and yellow fumes spread everywhere. Stiles instinctively backs away, seeing from the corner of his eyes how the girl makes a run toward the front door.

“ _Shit,_ ” Shirtless Guy curses and struggles to get free while Peter’s hand is tightening around his throat. Then Peter inhales some of the smoke, starts coughing and lets go. Shirtless guy uses the opportunity to wrench himself free, and while Peter falls to the floor twitching, he darts for the back door. He bruses past Stiles and knocks him aside with a well-aimed ellow at his solar plexus. The wall breaks Stiles’ fall. He struggles for breath, inhaling by instinct before he remembers what a colosally bad idea that is. Bearded guy fires another shot. Derek howls in pain only to start coughing as well. Shirtless guy twists out from under him and manages to escape through the front door while Derek struggles and fails to get to his feet.

Stiles pulls his t-shirt up with one hand and tries to cover his mouth and nose. He needs to get out of here, _right now_ , except that the hunters are outside and it’s clear from the way both Peter and Derek are still coughing and writhing on the floor that they’re not getting out without help. Derek’s eyes shine feverishly blue, unfocused. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Stiles crosses the distance and bends down to pull him up from the floor. He needs both hands, so he takes a deep breath, then lets go of his improvised gas mask. Luckily Derek recovers enough to stagger to his feet, swaying and bumping against Stiles, but he’s conscious and at least partly aware of his surroundings. Stiles pulls him toward the back door, their progress halted as Derek has to cough again, supporting himself with one hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the other one against the wall.

“Go for cover”, Stiles tells him as they reach the back door and earns himself a jerky nod. No one else is in sight. He takes another deep breath, holds it, and goes back inside. Peter lies on his stomach, struggling weakly, his arms and legs shaking. Stiles cautiously approaches, steps into glass and spilled liquid. He gets a hold of Peter’s belt and starts dragging him over the dirty floor toward the exit. The yellowish fumes are everywhere. Holding his breath probably _was_ a good idea, but Stiles’ vision is graying, he feels dizzy and has to cough too, can’t prevent it from happening. He gasps, desperate for air, then pulls Peter another couple of feet until they cross the doorstep. He lets go and gains a few more feet of distance before he sinks to the ground where he nearly passes out.

Moments or entire minutes go by, the world spinning around him. He hears someone moaning. It might be him. He regains a sense of his surroundings at last and finds himself on the ground, surrounded by a thick layer of different smells, dug up earth, herbs, a hint of thyme and peppermint and maybe fennel. Feeling hot and sluggish, Stiles opens his eyes. He’s in the garden and so are Derek and Peter. A pick-up truck is driving off with a roaring engine.

The hunters. Escaping.

“What the fuck,” he says, or tries to say. What comes out sounds more like, “whaddafu.”

“Wolfsbane,” Derek says from where he’s sitting right next to Stiles. His eyes are glowing blue. He has stopped coughing and while he’s still partly wolfed out, he changes back as Stiles looks at him. “Not the usual kind. Something … something different. I think.” He blinks, furrows his brow. “We need to … call...”

“Stiles,” Peter says. He’s not too far away, still on the doorstep, and stares at a bloody scrape on the back of his hand as if it’s something he’s seeing for the first time. “Call for help.”

“Sure,” Stiles agrees and gets to his feet. He’s momentarily distracted by the way Derek’s Henley emphasizes the strong, clean line of his shoulders and his pecs. The sudden urge to reach out and touch is surprisingly strong, and it doesn’t seem like a bad idea, now that the thinks about it.

“Stiles,” Derek says, a warning, or a question? Too late. Stiles’ fingers are already tracing his collarbone. Looks like they didn't require permission first. “Call … call Scott.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says. “Yeah, sure, in a minute.” Derek’s skin is warm and inviting under his hands where his fingers sneak under the collar. So smooth. Like … satin, or something. Maybe.

“Stiles!”

Stiles looks back at Peter. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are really pretty. Why has Stiles never noticed that before? And he’s got that absolute _focus_ that always gets Stiles a little hot and bothered, with his head tilted to the side. Stiles shivers. Peter’s eyes darken.

Time becomes a twisted, fragmented thing, consciousness elusive. Some impressions stay clear and pin-sharp in his mind.

They are standing outside, pressed together so tightly Stiles can’t tell who is touching him at any given body part.

Lips to his collar bone, a bite to his neck that makes him arch into Peter’s embrace with a breathy moan. Derek’s chest like chiseled marble under his hands, under his tongue.

Peter’s hands down his pants, Peter’s dick hot against his ass. Stiles loses his clothes between glass shards and spilled tequila, the trashed TV. He tumbles down onto a dirty bed, the synthetic fabric of a sleeping bag under his knees, and falls on top of Derek –

Kissing Peter, hungry, deep kisses while Derek’s head bobs between his legs, _oh God_  – fingers inside of him, opening him up with something slick and cool, someone else’s cock hot and hard in his hands.

On his stomach, and Derek’s on top of him, inside of him – Stiles looks up and Peter stares down at him intently. Smiling, Stiles says, “Yeah, come on,” and gasps when Derek’s next thrust makes his toes curl with _how good_ it is.

Peter, feeding him his cock, letting Derek’s thrusts do all the work, only giving him inches at a time when Stiles wants more of it, wants to be gagging on it. Stiles comes as Derek bites him, a sharp sting of pain on his neck, and Peter curses and pulls out of his mouth –

Kissing Derek, Derek’s tongue wet and hot in his mouth while he's straddling Peter, while Peter thrusts up into him from behind and a hot, incandescent burn travels along his spine. Kissing Derek, Derek’s hand around his dick, Peter’s breath hot in his ear.

Kissing Derek while he’s on his back, and then his dick is suddenly enveloped in vise-tight heat as Peter sinks down onto him. He breaks the kiss, gasps in shock and bucks his hips, helplessly, out of control as Peter laughs in delight and urges him on, “yes, Stiles, like _that_  –”

On a bed, everything sugar-sweet and sticky with come and sweat, his ass hurting distantly. Hands slide over his skin, touching him everywhere.

He’s lying on his side and Derek slides into him again, slowly, his thrusts shallow and languid. Stiles’ leg rests on Peter’s thigh, his dick slides against Peter’s. Peter’s eyes consume him. Over-sensitive, he can feel Derek pulse inside of him and fumbles with one hand, grabbing Derek’s ass to keep him there, right where Stiles needs him. Derek groans, nosing at his ear, and rolls his hips. “Don’t pull out,” Stiles pleads. Derek feels like a brand inside of him, hot and big and overwhelming, Stiles doesn’t want this to end. Derek thrusts again, easy, everything slippery and slick with come, God, Stiles wants more of it, wants to _drown_ in it – “I bet you can fuck me again. Please –” And Derek whimpers while Peter just stares at him. Stiles has to close his eyes and kiss him, blindly, the slide of their tongues slow and sweet as molasses. Peter’s stubble scrapes his chin, Peter’s teeth bite his bottom lip – a sharp sting of pain, then a sweet, sweet rhythmically sucking pull on his tongue that makes his dick leak, the tang of iron shared between them until he comes again, his scream muffled by Peter’s mouth.

His finger trace a hairy chest, a strong upper arm, someone’s lips travel along his spine, the nape of his neck, into the hairline, licking sweat off his skin, dropping kisses as they go.

A distant murmur, “beautiful, so good for me –”

“Huh?” he manages, on the verge of drifting off. The slick sound of a kiss he has no part in. He opens his eyes in curiosity. Peter and Derek are kissing with wet, sucking sounds.

He’s lying on his stomach and watching, with his head turned to the side, as Peter settles between Derek’s legs, as they rut against each other. Slurping noises, Derek with his head thrown back, arching off the bed, and Peter has to hold him down while he sucks him off – Stiles wants that, suddenly, fiercely, he didn’t get to do it, but as he moves, Peter turns his head to look at him, blue eyes fixing him on the spot with their possessive hunger. Derek’s hands find his hair, tugging until he goes where Derek wants him, and Stiles obligingly kisses his nipples, licks and sucks.

Peter kisses him and Stiles licks Derek’s come out of his mouth, takes his share, greedy for more

He comes one last time, dry, grinding against Derek’s thigh with Peter’s hand on him while Derek squeezes his hot, stinging ass. Kisses both of them, lazily, with his eyes closed.

Then, oblivion.

 

****

VI

He has to come out of the bathroom some time. The window is too small to squeeze through and his clothes are on the other side of the door. Stiles takes a deep breath, then another, and opens the door.

The cabin is basically just one big room, living room and bedroom combined with an adjacent kitchen area, the bathroom and a broom closet on opposite sides of the small passage leading to the back door. A microwave, a coffee maker, dirty dishes in the sink and empty boxes of microwave dinner piling on the floor. The living room part of the cabin consists of a brown leather sofa, worn out from use, with a sleeping bag hanging from one armrest, a couch table with empty beer cans and Pepsi bottles, and the remnants of a brown tube TV that appears to origin from the eighties.

Then there’s the bed, in the back of the room, and it’s certainly not in any better condition than the rest of the house. Also, Derek is sitting on it, naked. Stiles looks away.

“Where is Peter?” he asks. He approaches the bed without looking at Derek, trying to keep his private parts covered and at least mostly out of sight while looking for his pants. A pile of clothes that belong to neither of them is bundled up in a duffle bag on the floor, and, _oh_ , there’s one of Stiles’ shoes, wedged in between the bed and the nightstand.

“Checking the garden,” Derek says. Stiles can feel his eyes on him. “What are you looking for?”

“My _clothes_.” Shouldn’t that be really fucking obvious? Derek glances at him, then points at the foot end of the bed where Stiles’ briefs and pants are hanging from a bed post. “Thanks,” Stiles says, focusing firmly on gathering his clothes and slipping them on while Derek does the same. Stiles only gets as far as his briefs before Peter comes in through the back door. He, of course, is completely dressed.

“They’re growing a lot of potentially magical plants out there,” he says. “And enough wolfsbane to poison the entirety of Beacon Hills.” 

He stops in his tracks, tilting his head to the side with his nostrils flaring. Stiles rapidly averts his eyes and swallows. He can feel Peter’s gaze on him, like a hand sliding over his skin, a caress. He shivers.

“But that makes no sense,” he says, an attempt to distract himself and Peter both. “Why would they grow it here, of all places? To make wolfsbane bullets?”

“I doubt it,” Peter says. “But whatever the substance was they used on us, I’d be surprised if wolfsbane weren’t an integral part of it.”

“But I’ve been exposed to wolfsbane before, and it didn’t...”

“Didn’t what?” Peter asks in false innocence.

“Stop being a jerk,” Stiles snaps at him. “I didn’t make me want to have sex with two freaking werewolves.”

“Isn’t that a pity,” Peter murmurs and stares at him with glittering eyes.

“Stop that, both of you,” Derek says. “We have to get away from here, find out where they went.”

Peter doesn’t react. He keeps staring at Stiles. “You didn’t shower.”

“What?” Stiles says with a squeak. Peter takes a step in his direction. “Hey – what are you...?”

“You still smell like sex,” Peter informs him.

Stiles grabs for his pants, which are in a tangle, one leg inside out, stuck in itself. He detangles them before putting them on, tripping as he realizes Peter keeps coming toward him. “ _You_ take a shower in that thing, it’s disgusting. How can you even tell it’s me? Everything stinks in here. No, seriously, stay away from me!” His heart is racing.

Peter pauses, a few feet away from him, and lifts his hands. “Just admiring my handiwork. You look – and smell – like sin incarnated, but the stumbling ruins the overall impression. Gracefulness isn’t your forte, is it?” Peter shakes his head. “The blush is only making it worse, you realize?”

“Peter,” Derek says through gritted teeth. He rises to his feet with all the grace Stiles _doesn’t_ display. “Stop.”

It’s only then that Stiles sees them: red, faint marks on Derek’s chest, on his neck.

Bite marks. And it was Stiles who put them there. 

He can’t look away.

Derek catches him staring and freezes. His eyes widen.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, heartfelt, and takes a step toward him. He’s compelled. He can’t help but lift his hand to touch the bite mark that should be gone by now. He feels dizzy and hot. Maybe the stuff is still in their systems, yes, that must be the reason why Derek doesn’t stop him, why Derek’s breath comes a little faster, his eyes wide and dark, why Stiles’ finger wander from the bite mark on his neck to the hickey on his chest, right under his collarbone. Why hasn’t Derek healed? It’s making Stiles crazy, is what it does, and not the good kind of crazy, more the disastrous, really fucking ill-advised, ‘going to jump him right now’ kind of crazy.

Which he’s not going to do, obviously.

Derek stares at him and bites his lips. Stiles groans.

Peter moves suddenly and fluidly, crowding Stiles against Derek and pressing against his back. Stiles freezes. Peter’s sneaks his hand around Stiles’ waist, onto his stomach and slides it downward, grazing his navel, then following the fine trail of hair down until he’s cupping Stiles where he’s hard in his pants. “Now would you look at that,” Peter murmurs. “Turns out we’re not quite done after all.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes as Peter’s lips graze his ear lobe, his tongue flickering out to tease. “What am I doing?”

“What do you want to do?”

Stiles closes his eyes for a second, unable to move as Peter’s tongue reaches the hickey under Stiles’ ear and licks over it. He doesn’t know who left it there – Derek or Peter – but Derek’s growl probably counts for an answer. Peter chuckles.

This is insane. The stuff must still be in their systems; they need an antidote.

“This is truly delicious,” Peter says. “Are you going to do something, Derek, or are you only going to watch?”

Peter catches Stiles’ arm in a firm but gentle hold. Stiles lets him. He trembles and stares into Derek’s eyes as Peter lifts his wrist and presses his lips to Stiles’ pulse point, warm and wet.

“Dude, what’s it with your weird fixation with my wrist?” Stiles says, trying to suppress the shiver running down his spine. He tugs and Peter bites him in turn, just a little bit, just enough to make his heart stutter. “Stop it.”

“Even if I wanted to turn you, I am not an alpha,” Peter tells him, and Stiles isn’t sure he likes the tone, too edgy to be playful. “You are safe from me.”

“Let go of me.”

“As you wish,” Peter says.

He falls to his knees, taking Stiles’ jeans and boxers with him.

“ _Jesus fuck_ ,” Stiles curses, and then Peter spreads his cheeks and goes right for the kill, licking a broad stripe from Stiles’ balls right up to his hole, and that – that’s so fucking unsanitary, and it can’t possibly in any way taste good, but fuck if Stiles cares, it just makes him gasp and shake and clutch at Derek’s upper arms which are conveniently there for him to hold onto. “Whoa. Fuck. What.”

Peter holds Stiles’ cheeks apart. His tongue is wet and warm and lavishing, repeating the same motion over and over again. Stiles is lost to the sensation, going out of his mind with how good it feels, how dirty. Then Peter’s tongue pushes inside of him and he keens, desperate, and his shaking legs wouldn’t keep him upright anymore. But Derek is there to hold him and take his weight. Derek’s eyes are wide and dark, and he’s not protesting, he’s staring, intently, at Stiles flushed face, Stiles’ mouth – Peter’s tongue thrusts inside his hole, and Stiles cries out. The next moment, Derek kisses him and Stiles gratefully opens for him, kisses him back with all he has while Peter fucks him with his tongue.

His cock brushes against Derek’s fly. He feels Derek hot and hard beneath the fabric and moans into his mouth. Peter squeezes his ass, then puts his mouth on Stiles’ hole and _sucks_.

Stiles frees his mouth from Derek with a pathetic whimpering sound. “Fuck me. Come on, do it, fuck me already.”

Peter withdraws and Stiles whines again and pushes his ass back. He hears a soft chuckle, amusement edged with something darker, less benevolent. “What was that?”

“You heard me,” Stiles hisses. “Fuck me. You asshole.”

“Now, Stiles, of course, your wish is my command,” Peters says smoothly, and then a zipper is being lowered and the hard length of Peter’s dick nudges between his thighs, thrusting teasingly until Stiles, beyond caring about his dignity, spreads his legs.

“Please, you fucking bastard.”

Peter spreads his cheeks with both hands and pushes in – one long, hard, cruelly perfect thrust. Stiles keens and holds on to Derek, blinking away tears. He’s sore and tender inside and Peter fills, him, red hot and hard and _just right_. It’s an easier slide than it was last night, but also raw, laced with spikes of pain where he’s sore and used. He can’t get enough. Peter fucks him with short, brutal thrusts, pushing him against Derek each time, where his dick smears precome all over Derek’s belly.

And Derek witnesses it all, breathing hard, watching with a transfixed, hungry expression. Stiles moans and cups Derek’s cock through the denim. “Pull it out. I want to feel you.”

Derek growls. A second later, he unbuttons his fly with trembling hands. Stiles doesn’t even wait until he’s done before he worms his way into Derek’s briefs and pulls out his dick.

“Cockslut,” Peter says appreciatively and punctuates it with a long, slow thrust.

“Keep talking like this, and I’m going to cut your dick off,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, and Peter laughs and makes him gasp with the next one, just as long, just as slow.

“Derek, shut him up, will you?”

“I like to hear him,” Derek says, and Stiles lifts his head and stares at him, taken aback.

“You do?”

“The noises you make,” Derek says slowly, eyes on Stiles. As if he can’t help himself. “They’re...”

“Ah, young love,” Peter mocks. “As long as you two don’t forget that we’re in the middle of something here.” He circles his hips lazily, almost pulls out and slamms in again, hard.

Stiles whimpers and almost comes. He grips his dick at the last second, not wanting it to be over. “You fucker.”

“You would know,” Peter retaliates and fucks into him again, his thrusts shutting Stiles up more effectively than everything he could say.

Derek’s dick slides through his hand. Stiles tightens his grip, addicted to the way it feels, smooth and warm and wet at the tip. He’d love to blow Derek, but that’s not happening in this position, so he makes do with what he has and says, “Your fingers. In my mouth. Please.”

Derek’s pupils are blown wide, as if he’s still drugged. He lifts his hand to trace Stiles’ lips. Stiles opens his mouth and lets Derek’s index and middle finger slip inside, imagining Derek's cock. He closes his lips around them and hollows his cheeks. Derek groans as Stiles sucks on his fingers, as he fills his mouth with them until they can’t go any deeper without making him gag.

Peter starts to lose his rhythm. His irregular thrusts keep pushing Stiles against Derek. His cock smears wet stripes across Derek’s belly and Stiles loves it, loves the fact that Derek stares at his mouth with a flush on his face, seemingly unable to look away.

Peter stills and growls, pulling Stiles against his chest. “I am the one fucking you,” he says roughly, as if Stiles had forgotten about it, with with a slow, lazy roll of his hips. “Beg me,” Peter demands, and, fuck, he sounds pissed-off. Derek’s eyes narrow and focus on Peter. Stiles lets Derek’s fingers slide from his mouth. “No.”

“Do it, Stiles,” Peter whispers and licks at the shell of Stiles’ ear. Stiles shudders. Bastard. Peter smiles, circes his hips again, pulls out, then pushes in, too slow to do anything but tease. “Give me what I want and I’ll do the same.”

Stiles moans, and fuck it, but he needs Peter’s dick more than his pride intact. “Please. Fuck me.”

“Say my name,” Peter says, which, yeah, for a narcissistic asshole like him, that makes sense.

“Uncle Peter,” Stiles says sweetly, and is – rewarded? Punished? – with a brutal thrust.

“You little shit,” Peter hisses, and slams in again with brutal strength. For some fucked-up reason, that’s what makes Stiles seize, freeze and come all over Derek’s stomach and jeans with a yell. Peter pulls him close, holding him in place as he groans and stills, and Stiles feels it in the way a shiver runs through him that he’s emptying himself in Stiles’ body. The thought, the feeling is enough to force another spurt from Stiles dick, and he whimpers, helplessly turned on by the fact that he’s got someone’s – _Peter’s_ , his unhelpful brain supplies – jizz in his ass.

Peter pulls out slowly. He traces the rim with one finger, gathering drops of come and pushing them in. Stiles flinches at the touch, too sore now for it to feel any good. Then Peter pulls up his own pants and turns to go, and Stiles gives in to the tug of gravity and falls down to his knees. He fits his mouth over the head of Derek’s cock and _sucks_.

Derek’s hands grip his hair as if he’s trying to pull him off, but when Stiles uses his tongue to trace the vein on the underside, he goes still and sighs, half a moan. “Stiles. You don’t … you don’t have to...”

Weak as his resistance is, Stiles does not dignify it with a reply. He bobs his head up and down, drooling around his mouthful, everything slick with spit and precome. He pulls off for a second to swallow, and yes, he still loves the taste, it’s pure sex. Closing his eyes, he goes back for more, getting into it, the first time he consciously does it. He tries to find the depth that works best for him, setting a pace. This close, Derek smells like sweat and musk in a way that always turns Stiles off when it comes with locker rooms and dirty socks, but it’s different now: male and sex, and somehow knowing it’s Derek makes it even better. If becomes too much after a while, so he starts using his hand as well, which is what all the internet resources recommend when you’re still a newbie. Yeah, he has read up on sex, though he never actively imagined himself as the person to give a blowjob, but that doesn’t matter now, not when Derek’s hand cards through his hair, clenching and unclenching in turn, pulling at the strands. The occasional stab of pain makes Stiles lightheaded. A part of him wishes Derek would just fuck his mouth the way Peter did, but he’d have to stop to suggest it, and Derek seems to be enjoying what he does, so maybe next time – only that there’s not going to be a next time, is there.

Stiles makes himself stop thinking, focusing on Derek’s dick in his mouth instead, how it fills him up, thick and heavy on his tongue. He wants to make Derek lie down for him so that Stiles can sink onto his dick and ride him, but he doesn’t want to stop blowing him either and for a brief moment, he really regrets that he can’t have both, he’s _that_ greedy for Derek’s dick. But he can feel how sore his ass is even now, so, really not a good idea. Still … Stiles pulls off, licking lovingly around the head, tonguing the slit before he goes back down on Derek again. Derek whimpers. Stiles opens his eyes to look up to him –

Derek curses wildly and pulls out. His cock jerks as he comes all over Stiles’ throat and chest in hot spurts and while Stiles is kind of disappointed that he didn’t get to taste him, it’s also hot as fuck, that dark look of pure satisfaction and lust on Derek’s face. Derek’s fingers come up to play with his own come, rub it into Stiles’ skin like some kind of lotion, down to the hollow of his throat, and then he swoops up a drop of it with his thumb and wipes it over Stiles’ nipple, worrying the sensitive skin until Stiles moans.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck,” Stiles says weakly. They are both out of breath. Stiles’ jaw is stiff. The cold air flow on his sweaty, sticky skin makes him shiver. He closes his eyes for a second. This … this is getting out of control. Maybe it’s the aftereffect of the wolfsbane and maybe it isn’t; in any case, it’s rapidly becoming a problem.

As he opens his eyes again, Derek is looking at him. His hand lies on Stiles’ shoulder as if that’s where it belongs. He touches Stiles’ cheek with his thumb, slides it over Stiles’ cheekbone and lower, and then he leans forward, _down_ , as if he wants to –

Outside, a car engine starts. Derek pulls back from Stiles. “Peter,” he growls. “He’s taking their car.”

“Let him,” Stiles says. He starts feeling awkward, kneeling on the floor with his jeans around his ankles and covered in jizz. He supports himself with his hand on the bed and slowly gets to his feet. “I don’t care. He’s an asshole. But you know that he’s going to use this against us, don’t you? Against you?” He pulls his pants up next. Derek’s gaze wanders over him, lingers on his chest. Stiles awkwardly zips his fly.

“I’m not going to let him.”

Stiles shrugs and goes looking for his shirt, which prompts Derek to get dressed as well. Stiles feels something wet trickle down his ass crack, down his legs, and bites his lips. He needs a shower _so_ badly. It’s his top priority, before food.

As if on cue, his stomach growls.

Okay. Food on the way back, something greasy and salty, and something sweet, and _definitely_ some kind of hot beverage.

Derek looks at him with a blank face. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“What about this place? Do we, I don’t know, need to decontaminate it? Burn it down? What if they come back?”

“We’ll leave the windows open so it can air out, and take their guns”, Derek says. “Peter went through their things; we found another bottle of that stuff in one of their bags.” He gestures at the couch table where Stiles discovers another test tube, suspiciously similar to the one the girl threw at them. “But wherever they made it, it wasn’t here; looks like they only grew the wolfsbane here.”

“Right. I’ll take it to Deaton. Allison will probably know what to do about the guns, find out whether they’re registered. Or, I don’t know, you could just let them disappear? What about the garden? We should probably do something about all that wolfsbane...”

“Later,” Derek says. “We’ll either come back or let Scott take care of it. But we need to get out of here first, get you home to safety before they come back, possibly with backup.”

Stiles, who’d like nothing better than to get out of here, doesn’t object. Derek drives them back to Beacon Hills. Sties tries not to watch him too closely, his beard stubble, the fading hickey just above his collar, his hand on the gear shift.

 

****

VII

“Stop!”

Derek hits the brakes, tires squeezing as the toyota comes to an abrupt halt on the street and Stiles is forced back into the seat by the belt. “What?”

“Burger King!”

Derek throws him an ‘are you fucking kidding me’ look.

“What? I’m hungry.”

“I’m taking you home.”

“I don’t even get breakfast?” Stiles asks in feign indignation. “An hour ago I had your dick in my mouth! The least you can do is get me breakfast.”

Derek’s shifty glance only makes Stiles feel a little guilty. Derek turns into the drive-through and orders anything Stiles wants without another word of complaint. With eggs and bacon and Belgish waffles and, most essential, a huge cup of blessedly hot coffee, Stiles forgets about anything else. “Fuck, that’s good,” he mumbles around his mouthful of sugar-sweet perfection. Derek makes an undecipherable noise and tears into his breakfast burger.

 

****

VIII

Derek pulls up on the sidewalk in front of their house. Stiles unfastens his seat belt. “So. This isn’t going to be awkward, is it?” Derek just looks at him. Stiles sighs. “Stupid question. Of course it is. Okay – I hope you don’t blame me for the whole mess, because I don’t blame you in any way. We can – we can blame Peter, I’d be fine with that, but truth be told, I don’t think this is on him. So how about we simply forget about it?” Like that’s likely to happen anytime soon, and Derek’s arched eyebrows speak volumes. “Okay. Or we can just – you know – not talk about it. That would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Are you okay?” Derek says, looking straight at him, stupidly handsome in the morning light.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Stiles says. “You?”

Derek just nods.

“Awesome. So I guess – I’ll see you whenever.” Stiles gets out of the car. Walks away and doesn’t turn to look at Derek, not even as the car pulls away. He takes a deep breath, pressing his head against the cool surface of the front door. The part of his mind that always focuses on the most irrelevant details hopes that the neighbors haven’t seen him – the sheriff’s jailbait son getting out of a foreign car on a Saturday morning, driver: Derek Hale. His dad doesn’t need that kind of gossip to make the round.

Stiles tiptoes up the stairs. It’s not always easy to go unnoticed, and without poker night to work in his favor, he’d be busted in no time. But he manages to sneak into his room and pull the door close behind him, exhaling with relief.

“Stiles!”

Instinct has him flail and reach for the bat before he recognizes the voice, and then, when he does, it’s followed by even greater panic. Because no way Scott won’t notice that –

“Stiles?” Scott carefully asks, nostrils flaring. “Where have you been? You smell – you smell like –”

“Dude, what are you doing here?” Stiles hisses. “You almost scared me to death!”

“You weren’t answering your phone!”

“Shouldn’t you be in, I don’t know – Rafting River, or something? Paddling Paradise?”

“Canceled,” Scott says, and keeps staring at Stiles. “The area was flooded. Dad was pissed. We came back late and I thought I’d call you to see what’s up, but you – Stiles, what happened?”

“Hunters happened! All right, and Derek. And… Peter.”

“I can smell that,” Scott says. “What did they do to you? Are you hurt?” He makes a step toward Stiles, then hesitates. “Did they take advantage of you? If they hurt you, I’ll –”

“Dude, calm down. It wasn’t like that. No one took advantage, all right?” His word don’t seem to reassure Scott as they should. There’s more than a hint of red in his eyes and it disturbingly reminds Stiles of the newly-bitten beta who lost control over lacrosse during the full moon. “Come on, Scott, I wouldn’t lie to you about that.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “I really need you to get a grip, okay? My dad can’t know about this, it would kill him.”

“Then tell me what happened, or I’ll go to Derek and ask _him_ ,” Scott says, and it really starts to piss Stiles off.

“Don’t. Just – _don’t._ It’s not his fault. Leave him alone, all right? Oh, come on, Scott, this is getting ridiculous, I’m not a damsel in distress. This possessive-aggressive attitude, it’s not cute, so cut it. I need you to stop freaking the fuck out and listen to me. _I’m fine._ Repeat with me: Stiles. Is. Fine.”

Scott’s hands slowly unclench. He even appears a bit chagrined. “You don’t – you don’t _smell_ fine, okay?”

“That bad?”

Scott scrunches up his nose. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Okay. Okay, great.” Stiles takes a deep breath and starts to fill Scott in. Halfway through his explanation, Scott becomes a lot less interested in details, and Stiles is frankly relieved. “So you get the picture. Sex. Sex happened, a lot of sex. All kinds of sex. And it was consensual at that point? Well, kind of. Semi-consensual. But all good, you know?”

“Yeah,” Scott says weakly. He is still sitting on the bed, and whenever Stiles gets too close while pacing the room, Scott’s nostrils flare in a way that would be more than slightly offensive if Stiles didn’t know the reason. “I get it.”

“So if you want to blame anyone, blame those hunters. Actually, it would be great if you could talk to Allison. I don’t think they have the Argents’ blessing, but what do I know?”

“I’ll do that,” Scott promises. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles sighs. “Don’t be.”

“Not only for – I’m sorry I overreacted. I am a bit protective of you, I can’t change it. I hate the thought that you were forced –”

“I wasn’t the only one, you know. It’s not like Derek or Peter had a choice either.”

“Yes, but neither of them was a virgin.” Scott presses his lips together. “Sorry.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to feel about this, truth be told. He shrugs. “It happened. That’s taken care of – at least this way no one will be able to use me as a virgin sacrifice anymore.”

“Are you even – are you even into guys?”

“Looks like it,” Stiles says, because there’s nothing to be done about it, any chances of successful denial went right out of the window this morning when he was begging Peter to fuck him. When he was choking himself on Derek’s dick. “Is that a problem?”

“What? No. No!”

“Then what is?”

“It’s just … kinda sudden?” Scott says, shrugging with one shoulder.

“Believe me, I know,” Stiles says. “I mean, I always thought, _Lydia_ , and now –”

“I guess... I guess you’ll need some time to figure it out, right?”

“I’m not _confused_ , if that’s what you think –”

“I just mean, coming to terms with it. All of it. Guess it’s a lot to take in.”

Stiles exhales with relief, because Scott _gets_ it. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be there. If you want to talk about it. I mean, I’m not – but I’ll always listen, okay?”

“Okay.”

They look at each other for a long, serious moment.

Then Scott’s expression turns into a wince. “Dude, _Peter_?”

Stiles groans. “Don’t even start. Get out, McCall, I need a shower, and you need to take care of some hunters on your territory.”

 

****

IX

“Where did you find this?” Deaton asks, looking at the bottle filled with ominous, yellowish fumes in Stiles’ hand. “May I?”

Stiles wordlessly hands him the vial and watches as Deaton tilts it to one side, then the other, squinting at it in the light of his examination lamp. He pulls the stopper and take the faintest of whiffs, then quickly puts the stopper on again. “Where did you say that you found it?”

“So you know what it is?”

“Let’s say, I have an inkling.”

“It’s wolfsbane, isn’t it? But not the usual kind; some other species. Yellow petals?” The herb garden was full of it, that, and a variety of herbs and plants Stiles wouldn’t recognize if he had a classification book. He’s not great with plants.

“Aconitum Anthora, Yellow Monkshood. It not indigenous to America. But that is likely not the only ingredient; it would only be the mediator.”

“Huh?”

“This was made to affect werewolves. Hence the wolfsbane,” Deaton says. “It would have a different effect than merely poisoning them, though, but I believe you already know that.”

Stiles bites his lips. “I guess so.”

“If I am not mistaken, this is a distillate made of mandrake and a few other herbs, magically altered to minimize the poisonous effects but enhance certain side effects.”

“I take it you are familiar with it?”

“Not with this exact recipe, no, but the process of creating a magical substance is basically the same regardless of its purpose. I am afraid that a complete analysis will take a bit of time.”

“Can you tell me...” Stiles wets his lips, hesitating. “Please, can you just tell me what it does?”

“I would assume it was made to work as a an aphrodisiac on werewolves as well as humans.”

“That … that makes sense, I guess.” Stiles stares at the substance, avoiding Deaton’s questioning gaze.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“Have you been exposed to this drug recently?”

“... maybe?”

“Were you on your own, or...”

“Define, ‘on your own’.”

“Stiles.”

“Not – not really.” Stiles bites his lips.

“Were you hurt?” Deaton asks, and while his voice is still mostly neutral, there is a hint of concern in it.

“No.”

Silence. Stiles looks up briefly only to see Deaton furrow his brow with a distinctly sceptical expression. “No! I swear. Nothing happened. I mean, nothing _bad_ happened. I’m not _traumatized_ or anything.”

Deaton sighs. “If you were forced...”

“I wasn’t! I mean, not any more than they were, so –”

“ _They_?”

“Aw, crap.” Stiles pulls at his sleeves. “Look, can we please – keep this confidential?” Deaton looks at him sharply, then nods. “Okay. Okay, so. It’s our own fault, kind of, we had a bit of a run-in with some hunters and they threw this stuff at us and the fumes spread everywhere, and we – I – that is – we were all affected. Kind of – kind of like with the wolfsbane punch at Lydia’s birthday party. So... things happened. Like, _all_ the things. But – most of them were really good, just not what I had planned for losing my v-card.” Stiles coughs. He has the distinct feeling that Deaton is even more uncomfortable with the topic than he is. “So – I was wondering, do we need an antidote? I mean, I need to be sure that there are no lingering side effects or anything. And in case these guys try something like this again.”

Unfortunately Deaton isn’t derailed by the enormous amount of words coming out of Stiles’ mouth. “Who did you say you were with?”

Stiles shrugs. “Does it matter?”

Deaton sends him a long, scrutinizing gaze. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“This specific variety of wolfsbane would not create a sexual urge if there hadn’t been one before. It merely amplifies what is already there.”

“ _What_?”

“Stiles –”

“No, no, seriously what? Does that mean … oh my God.”

“Stiles.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, are you saying that – are you saying that Derek already had a werewolf boner for me, and – and _Peter?_ Fuck.” The look on Deaton’s face is, frankly, priceless, and Stiles, near-hysterically, laughs. “Please tell me you weren’t serious.” Deaton’s mouth twists in a somewhat apologetic way. “But – I mean – how can you know that?”

“This species of wolfsbane can also be used to make a werewolf go feral. Magical drugs like that are not always reliable, not always stable. You were lucky, that, obviously...” Deaton winces. “That both Derek’s and his uncle’s attraction to you were stronger than their aggressive urges.”

“You mean I’m lucky they wanted to fuck me, not eat me?

“In a way,” Deaton says hesitantly. “Are you sure you weren’t hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says. “Just – can we _not_ talk about it anymore?”

“As you wish,” Deaton says. “As long as you are aware of... possible complications.”

“What? Compli – they didn’t _impregnate_ me or something, or I got werewolf-married, or, I don’t know, I’m going to turn into a werewolf now because we didn’t use condoms, oh my God, can werewolves carry STDs?” He’s close to hyperventilating.

Deaton shakes his head in dismay. “Nothing like that. You just might want to consider that both Peter and Derek have been made aware of their desire for you. I doubt that Derek will cause any problems – Peter, on the other hand...”

“Wait,” Stiles says, “Wait. When you said that – when you said that they just acted on something that was already there – whoa, that’s weird – does that apply to me as well? Because I’m pretty sure that I didn’t have a hard-on for Peter.”

Deaton’s lips aren’t actually twitching, Stiles decides, that’s just his overactive imagination.

“Maybe you should ask yourself that question.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles says. “But – Peter? Ugh. I really didn’t need to know that about myself.”

“Attraction does not equal affection,” Deaton says. “The former is a matter of biology, the latter a matter of the heart.”

“You would say something like that,” Stiles says faintly. “I mean, I’m fine with having the hots for Derek – have you seen the guy? – but Peter, that’s just – no.”

Deaton sighs. “It is only natural to be confused. Experiences like these –” he interrupts himself. “Would you be more comfortable discussing this with my sister?”

“Your sister? Who worked with the alpha pack and spied on us?”

“Marin is certainly better equipped to offer advice than I am,” Deaton says. “But I can see that you might be uncomfortable confiding in her.”

“I don’t think I need any kind of counseling,” Stiles says. “I mean, it happened, it was fun, time to get over it? Move on.”

Deaton sighs. “As long as you are careful.”

“Of what?”

“Peter.”

“Oh, believe me, I intend to be.”

“If Peter considers you someone worth his attention – a price, his for the taking –”

“Whoa. Whoa.” Stiles lifts his hands. “He’s not, like, going to think that doing the dirty with me makes me his precious, or something?” Deaton just looks at him. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. That could be – awkward. To say the least.”

“Be careful, Stiles.”

“I will. Believe me, I will.”

“Call me when you need my help.”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” Stiles straightens his back. “All right, then. Just, could you, you know, work on an antidote? In case someone tries something like that again. Those guys could still be around.”

“They were hunters, you said?”

Stiles sighs and tells Deaton what he knows. Deaton furrows his brow as Stiles mentions the girl.

“Red hair?” he inquires.

“Yeah. Dyed, I guess, really red and curly.” Deaton scowls, his lips thinning. “Do you know her?” Stiles asks. “Who is she?”

Deaton shakes his head. “It might be a coincidence,” he says. “I need to... look into it.”

Stiles opens his mouth. It was his ass in the line of fire, literally, so he thinks he has a right to know whatever Deaton might suspect. But Deaton just looks at him, that compassionate but determined expression on his face. “I’ll look into it,” he repeats.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay.” Then, because he really doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, he flees, as fast as his sore legs and sore ass let him.

 

****

X

Outside the clinic, he leans his forehead against the car door, taking a deep breath. It’s a bit much, all of it. And it’s not that he doesn’t like Deaton, but this conversation has been pushing his boundaries. What is he meant to do with this?

Finding out you’re bisexual through a night of steamy hot threesome sex is one thing. Finding out your dark, broody werewolf acquaintance and his homicidal, psychopathic uncle are having the hots for you a different one entirely. Stiles doesn’t care what Deaton says, the feeling isn’t mutual. Not, at least, when it comes to Peter.

Right.

Okay, so telling himself that is kinda like closing the barn door after the horse has already bolted. Doesn’t mean Stiles has to like it.

Stiles gets in his jeep, gingerly, the way he’s been moving the whole day, for reasons. He pulls out his phone. Reconsiders, briefly, but fuck it, he’s not going to let it affect the way he interacts with either of them. He calls Derek, who picks up after a moment.

“What, Stiles?”

“What about their apartment?” Stiles asks, not wasting any time on niceties. “Shouldn’t we check it?”

“We already did that,” Derek says. “They’re gone.”

“What do you mean, they’re gone? They’ve skipped town, or gone underground –”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you found out anything at all?”

“It’s where they made the drug. We found traces of wolfsbane and some stuff that looked like a makeshift lab, though they took everything with them that could have given us an actual clue.”

“Huh.” Stiles’ head wraps itself around the new mystery. “What about the neighbors?”

“Didn’t seem to know anything.”

Stiles bites his lips. “I never asked, how did Peter know they were hunters in the first place?”

“He smelled wolfsbane on them when he first saw them.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If you’re close enough, it has a very distinct smell.”

“If you say so,” Stiles says, because he’s willing to believe Derek but doesn’t trust Peter one iota. “What are we going to do about the garden?”

Derek inhales and exhales, a long, resigned breath. “I don’t know. It would be best to burn it down, but...”

“You wolves would be exposed to the smoke,” Stiles says. “And we don’t want to cause a forest fire. Obviously a bad idea. We could ask Deaton...”

“We could,” Derek says.

Stiles sighs, staring straight ahead at the clinic door he just stepped though a few minutes ago. “Okay. I’ll do it.” Because he’s not enough of a masochist already.

 

****

XI

“Gardening.” Deaton pulls two dusty tomes from his book shelf. “It requires very basic skills. It helps to be able to tell one plant from another, which is where these might come handy.” He puts the books right in front of Stiles. “What is more essential is the willingness to spend hours and hours working under the burning sun while developing a back ache and blisters on one’s hands.”

Stiles groans. Because of course he isn’t sore enough as it is.

“It is not a particularly complicated task. Harvest the fully grown plants, use masks and gloves to protect yourselves. Make sure you pull out the roots. Dig up the earth, take down the fence so deer and rabbits can use the acreage for pasture. Return once in a while to make sure the wolfsbane is gone for good and all will be well.” Deaton shrugs with an amiable smile. “I would love to help, seeing as I like to do a bit of gardening myself now and then, but unfortunately I have a few cases of advanced surgery scheduled for next week. I need to brush up on my knowledge of ferret anesthetics. I wish you good luck.”

“But,” Scott starts, exchanging an appalled look with Isaac, who’s leaning against the door with his hipster scarf and doesn’t seem very keen on getting his hands dirty with a shovel and garden shears.

“I’m sure you’ll manage splendidly,” Deaton says and retreats, leaving them in the main examination room while he heads for his office.

“Great,” Stiles mutters. “Just great.”

“I guess if we all work together, it won’t be that bad?” Scott says and Isaac snorts.

“We have to get rid off the wolfsbane,” Derek points out, the only thing he’s said so far. He’s been the last one to arrive at the clinic, an angry scowl on his face, stupidly handsome even when he’s brooding and angry. At least the anger isn’t directed at Stiles. In fact, Derek has been ignoring him pretty effectively. Stiles wishes he could say the same; instead he catches himself gazing at Derek far too often, acutely aware of his every move. He just hopes it isn’t as obvious to others as it is to himself.

 

****

XII

As they arrive at the cabin, they find it empty. It doesn’t look like the hunters have returned at all. The trash is still there, as are the sleeping bags on the bed, which, okay, were ruined completely by the activities that took place on them last night. Stiles avoids looking at them, but he pulls a threadbare blanket off the couch and throws it over the worst of the mess, kicking the half-empty bottle of mango-scented sun lotion under the bed.

Behind him, Scott enters the cabin, takes one breath and immediately rubs his nose. “Urgh.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Scott confirms.

“You know, let’s just get to work,” Stiles says with a scowl. “This day can’t be over soon enough.”

Two hours later, they are still harvesting plants in the late afternoon sun and Stiles is kneeling in a flower bed with his t-shirt riding up and exposing more of his skin than is probably healthy. He’s stupid for not having thought of bringing sun lotion of his own, but he’ll be damned if he uses the stuff from the cabin.

“Whoa,” Isaac says behind him, straightening with garden shears in his gloved hand. “Are those – bruises?”

“What?” Stiles sits back, his shirt sliding down.

“On your back –”

“What – um”, Stiles says, feeling his heat face with embarrassment as he turns around. Isaac looks at him with open concern. A few feet behind him, Derek rapidly averts his eyes, suddenly extremely busy ripping out wolfsbane plants.

“Stiles,” Isaac says, and wow, that’s different, he rarely uses Stiles’ first name, normally it’s just ‘Stilinski’. “Did someone hurt you?”

Derek’s face is hidden behind plants. If anything, he shrinks even more into himself, trying to disappear and get one with nature, probably.

“No,” Stiles says. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but – it’s the wrong track, like, completely? No one hurt me.”

Isaac frowns.

“No, really, I swear it. I’m not lying!”

“Your heartbeat is going crazy,” Isaac says, and Stiles bites his lips because he knew that, but if Isaac has noticed it, there’s no way Derek will miss it.

Scott looks up from the basket where he’s sorting and bagging different kinds of herbs with slightly constipated look. “Isaac,” he says. “Just – leave it alone?”

“You didn’t tell him,” Stiles says.

Scott winces. “Uh – was I meant to do that? I thought you didn’t want –“

“Oh, hell,” Stiles says. “I guess there’s no way he’s not going to find out anyway now.”

“Find out what?”

“Can we do this later?” Derek says, voice cool. “We’re not even halfway done.”

“What Derek wants to say,” Stiles says, because he’s currently more annoyed than embarrassed, though that might change again later, “is that he and I and Peter were whammied with magical wolfsbane last night and had an extremely athletic and vigorous sex marathon inside that cabin while the hunters were probably laughing their asses off at us on their way to wherever.”

Halfway through his explanation, Scott starts to cough and Derek growls. Stiles doesn’t let it deter him. “And while I get that those bruises might look incriminating, rest assured, they are the marks of passion.”

“ _Passion_ ”, Scott forces out, between coughs.

Isaac’s expression changes from taken aback to faintly nauseated. “Peter,” he says blankly.

“What can I say?” Stiles, having obviously abandoned both his dignity and his common sense somewhere on the road. “I’m just that irresistible.”

“I thought you were a virgin,” Isaac says.

“He was,” Scott says.

And Derek – Derek comes up with glowing blue eyes. “Shut up!” he hisses, and it’s directed at all of them, and then he’s moving and grips Stiles’ upper arm and pulls him out of the flower bed to drag him inside the cabin, his wrist in a tight grip. Stiles stumbles after him. “Derek! Let go of me! What the fuck, Derek, stop –”

Derek pulls the door shut behind them and pushes Stiles against the wall. Stiles’ heartbeat spikes and he sincerely he wishes it were out of fear, but it’s pretty much the opposite, it’s _Derek_ , close up and glowering, his hands around Stiles’ wrists.

“ _Shut up_ ,” Derek growls.

“Hey! Stop going all caveman on me. I get it, you’re manly and stuff, and it’s really hot, but –”

“This isn’t a joke,” Derek growls, and he’s up in Stiles’ face with his hot, panting breaths. “You were a virgin, for fuck’s sake. How can you joke about it?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Stiles says, and it comes out a bit breathless, “that I’m just trying to cope somehow?”

“By making jokes that make me look like a fucking rapist?”

“That’s not – that’s not what I’m doing!”

“I wouldn’t have touched you,” Derek says wildly “I wouldn’t have laid a finger on you, and I wouldn’t have let Peter either, I’d have killed him first, if he’d touched you in any way you didn’t want. It’s not a joke. It isn’t.”

“Derek.”

“You have no idea,” Derek says, eyes flashing. “You have no idea how much I’m struggling to keep it together right now, so stop joking about it. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Derek –”

“No one asked me either. I didn’t –”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurts out. He’s trembling under Derek’s hands, his body a mess of conflicting sensations. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I know you didn’t want – I know you wouldn’t –” Derek’s grip softens just slightly. “I’m sorry you were made to do things you didn’t want. That’s not fair.”

Derek lets go of him and visibly deflates, shoulders slumping as he stares at the ground as if the threadbare rug in front of the door had any insights to offer. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry too.”

“I’ll stop making jokes about it,” Stiles says.

“No,” Derek says. “You don’t have to – you should do what you’re comfortable with.”

“But you don’t think it’s funny,” Stiles says.

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Look, I’ll try to be – more considerate. But I’m famous for putting my foot in my mouth, so if I do or say something that makes you uncomfortable, then just tell me to knock it off, okay?” Derek looks at him in a vaguely astonished fashion. Stiles finds it a little insulting. “What? I’m not a completely insensitive jerk. I just tend to speak before I think sometimes.”

Derek laughs, a sharp, unamused sound. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, the retort unconvincing even to himself. Between unwanted arousal and adrenaline, his body slowly settles for relief, only with the added flavor of feeling ashamed. Stiles hates that feeling. “Are we okay?”

“Are you?” Derek asks.

“Yeah – I guess. Almost. You?”

Derek just shrugs. “I will be.”

“Okay, then. So – we should probably go back and pull some more weeds, or something.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, meeting his gaze and holding it. Suddenly the air is too tight around them.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, lowering his eyes to stare at the floor. Derek lets out a long breath.

 

****

XIII

“So,” Stiles says as they arrive at Melissa’s house. Isaac gets out of the car fairly quickly while Scott remains, hesitating on the passenger seat. He runs a hand through his hair. “Are we going to do something about these hunters?”

“I don’t know,” Scott says. “I mean, they ran, so they’re probably not going to be back for a while? I’m going to talk to Chris when Allison comes back, maybe he knows something.”

“We need to find them,” Stiles says. “Find out what they were doing here, and why. This drug –”

Scott looks at him with something suspiciously akin to pity on his face. It’s driving Stiles nuts. “Deaton will find an antidote, in case someone ever tries something like that on us again.”

“What,” Stiles says. “Is that all?”

“Well, what else can we do?” Scott asks. He winces. “I don’t mean... Stiles, of course we’ll try to find them. It’s just that they’re gone for the moment, and I don’t think they’re going to come after us. It’s probably not going to be easy to get on their trace, they could be anywhere by now. I don’t think they’re going to stick around.” He puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Look. I know what they did was pretty fucked up – and it’s definitely something we need to look into, what they did there and why. But the way you described it, you caught them by surprise, so maybe they were just trying to defend themselves? I mean, how could they have know you weren’t going to kill them? And you said that they were using the opportunity to get away. But if they had really wanted to kill you, wouldn’t that have been fairly easy for them? I mean, it’s still not okay that they threw that stuff on you. But going after them just for – I don’t know, vengeance, or something – I just don’t think that’s the best idea.”

Stiles hates how Scott can sometimes be so rational.

“Sorry,” Scott adds, grimacing. “I know that’s really not what you want to hear right now. Stiles, I want to help, I really do. I just don’t know – would it help you to talk to my mom?”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles says with a shudder. “No!”

Scott sighs. “Sorry.”

“I want to find these assholes and...”

“And what?”

“Make sure they don’t do it again,” Stiles says through gritted teeth.

Scott nods solemnly. “Okay.” But when gets out of the car, turning to look at Stiles with a concerned expression, Stiles is missing the one thing that he feels, and in abundance.

Anger.

 

****

XIV

Stiles comes home at half past nine. He heats up a quick dinner in the kitchen and joins his father on the living room couch to eat it, grateful when his dad, focused on the baseball game, doesn’t ask too much about his day. No, as long as his bruises don’t show, it’s not visible how different the world is, how different _he_ is.

He takes a shower before bed, rinsing off dirt and sweat and the scent of grass and herbs from his skin, curling his fingers around his cock and thinking of Derek’s hands on him as he strokes himself to hardness, Derek’s mouth on this throat as he comes.

 

****

XV

Sunday morning means research.

The first step is to google the name of R. Warner, which was the nameplate on Plaid Shirt’s apartment door. The name is fairly generic, making it impossible to filter anything of importance from the many pages of search results. Well, then. Stiles has an ace up his sleeve he’s never thought he’d actually find a use for. The Beacon Hills land register has been digitalized recently, and of course the sheriff’s department has access to it. He types in his father’s password, presses enter and opens a couple of other tabs as he waits for the page to load.

According to the land register, the cabin belongs to one Ryan Pulatski, born in 1988.

Ryan Pulatski has a facebook profile that tells Stiles he’s currently living in San Francisco but went to high school in Beacon Hills, the same school Heather’s been at. He seems a bit young to own a cabin in the woods. Stiles goes through the online archive of the Beacon County News looking for the name Pulatski and finds an obituary note from about one year ago, of a Caroline Pulatski who died at the age of fifty-four. The relatives listed are _Hugo Pulatski with Hatty and Ryan._ Bingo.

Stiles logs into facebook with one of his fake profiles – what? – everyone has them, these days – and sends a friendship request to Ryan. Further searches reveal nothing, or at least nothing that can be tied back to Ryan Pulatski from Beacon Hills. But Caroline Pulatski was the vise-president of the local ornithology club. She’s still on the homepage, which hasn’t been updated in a while. The picture shows a haggard woman with short gray hair and glasses, wearing hiking boots, cargo pants, a grayish-brown outdoor jacket and binoculars. She looks nice, Stiles thinks, and wonders whether she left the cabin to Ryan because she’d felt connected to him, or because she hadn’t had anyone else. But that thought is just too depressing to dwell upon, so he moves on. He’s just closing the site as his gaze falls on the group photo and alarm bells start ringing in his mind.

He opens the page again, leaning forward to get a closer look. There’s a face that looks vaguely familiar. The woman is tall and sturdy, with curly hair, maybe in her early forties. Meredith Ridley, the caption says. Stiles stares at her face. The similarity is striking enough that his heart beats with elevation as he recalls those wide eyes meeting his across a room full of hunters and werewolves. He shakes his head, fingers unsteady as he types the name into google. The second entry discloses that she might be the manager of an outlet store in Hill Valley’s shopping mall. She must be the girl’s mother, or her aunt, maybe? He types in Ridley, Hill Valley. Ridley, Beacon Hills. Nothing; if the Ridleys are living in the neighborhood, they keep a tight lid on their internet presence.

Checking facebook, he sees that Ryan Pulatski has actually answered his friendship request. His photo looks nothing like any of the men in the cabin and he’s way too young to be Plaid Shirt who drove the SUV. It would have been too easy, Stiles tells himself, and spends the next hour browsing Pulatski’s facebook chronicle.

Ryan is studying at the school of pharmacy of the University of California. He’s one of these guys with hundreds of facebook friends. Scrolling down long lines of pictures, Stiles finds her at last, peroxide blonde hair, but the name fits and her face is familiar. Hannah Ridley. She’s born in 1990. She hasn’t been posting a lot, but that doesn’t matter when her face is right there, smiling at him. Stiles sends her a friendship request too, though it looks like she hasn’t been online for a while. Probably too busy planting wolfsbane in her friend’s cabin. Stiles scowls.

It’s half past eleven as his father knocks on his door. “Don’t you think you might want to come down for breakfast at some point?”

“In a minute,” Stiles replies, busy trying to find out whether Hannah Ridley is currently living as a regular resident in Beacon Hills or Hill Valley. Nothing. And who were the other guys? It’s not like he can type in Bearded Guy or Plaid Shirt into google and expect results.

He doesn’t get any more leads, so it will probably require a bit of old-fashioned detective’s work. He can try to get a name to the license plates of the cars, but it’s not as easy as it once was to get the information form the sheriff’s department, not since Blobfish practically moved in there. Anyway. He has some places to check out, the outlet store on the top of his list – ask around, pretend to be a friend of Ryan respective Hannah, so their parents will tell him something. It’s not much, but it's better than nothing. Stiles sighs.

The rest of the day is spent on the couch. His father takes him out for a nice dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant, and that’s at least some kind of reward. The pizza rolls are to die for.

In the evening, he fends off a call from Scott, concerned about his wellbeing but a little too unconcerned about the hunters, and watches a lot of gay porn. The vestiges of his denial disappear with his second orgasm. He’s not currently in the mood or condition for something up his ass, but he’s looking forward to the time he will be. He’s maybe a little drunk as he orders a bright blue dildo in a reasonable size. Because yolo.

 

****

XVI

On Monday, he goes to school with a headache, fading hickeys all over his torso, which will make changing for lacrosse training a bitch, and the subsequent, urgent desire to kick both Peter’s and Derek’s asses to hell. But even more than that, he wants to punch those hunters in the face.

He extracted the promise of both Scott and Isaac not to tell a living soul. It’s his own fault, really, when he avoids Lydia a bit too obviously, trying to hide in the men’s room as she walks down the floor in heels with a flowery skirt, looking positively radiant. She’s waiting when he cautiously peers outside.

“Stiles!”

Busted. “Hey,” he says. “Hi. How was your weekend?”

He manages not to tell her. Barely. When she sets Allison on Scott, Stiles is going to be so screwed. And not in the fun way.

Even the longest school day has to end eventually. Stiles gets into his jeep and drives to Hill Valley where he visits the shopping mall. The outlet store is hidden away in some corner of the fancy new building. When he enters, he’s greeted by a woman standing at the register who decidedly isn’t Mrs. Ridley – young, brunette, with a full figure and a friendly smile. When he asks, he’s told that Mrs. Ridley has already left for the day. He fakes disappointment, then uses her absence to entertain the cashier with a colorfully woven tale of Hannah, the former babysitter who used to keep him company while his mother was hospitalized.

“I wanted to ask her mom for her number or e-mail address,” he tells the woman, who has started making a sad/concerned/sympathetic face he’s not above taking advantage of. “I guess you can’t give me Mrs. Ridley’s number, can you?” He sighs at the beginning of a regretful headshake. “No, of course not, silly question, right. It’s just that I don’t come here often, and I thought... never mind. If you could just maybe, tell her I said hello?” He accompanies it with a bit of lip biting and big doe eyes that only work on people who don’t know him.

“Oh, honey,” the cashier tells him regretfully and he sighs and shrugs.

“Okay, you know, I’d really love to buy something, but we don’t have a lot of money, dad and I, and I was really just hoping I’d meet Mrs. Ridley here. I wanted to let Hannah know how much it meant to me that she was there for me when my mom died, and...”

She slips him a piece of paper, with a phone number scribbled on it, and Stiles, wrapped up in his own tale, beams at her. “Wow, thank you!” he says and then excuses himself to walk the fuck out of there.

But he is in Hill Valley already, so he decides to take a detour and check out the apartment for himself. Maybe the others have overlooked something.

He parks the jeep around the corner and then walks up to the apartment building. The door is locked but he rings few door bells and is let in after a brief conversation with an old lady who seems to believe him when he introduces himself as a pizza delivery guy from Fredo’s Pizza whose client isn’t answering the door – “The pizza got done early, so he might be in the bathroom, or something, could you maybe open the door so I can go up and just knock?” The door opener buzzes. “Thank you, ma’am.” Stiles allows himself a victorious smile and stomps up the stairs, lifting his hands in a mimicry of a pizza man carrying a box.

His attempts at picking the lock are more successful than the last time. A minute later he’s standing inside a dark and cramped apartment, the faint smell of herbs mingling with the stale air. It’s not especially large: just two bedrooms and a combined living and kitchen area, furnished but otherwise deserted. All personal stuff is gone, but it’s far from sterile – there are bread crumbs on the couch, smudged fingerprints on the remote. Even the wifi is still active.

The second bedroom has been transformed into something like a working room, with work benches along the wall and a table in the center of the room. The carpet is stained and littered with burn holes. He finds a bit of equipment – a Bunsen burner, a couple of broken test tubes, not unlike the one that Hannah threw at them in the cabin – stuffed randomly into a box under the table. Something they forgot to throw out, or they just didn’t care at that point. Stiles rummages through the box and finds nothing of interest. He searches the rest of the apartment, which turns out even more of a waste of time. There’s nothing to connect the hunters to Beacon Hills, nothing to indicate they intended to stay here more than temporarily. Stiles goes looking for likely hiding places: under the carpet, inside the toilet tank. Nothing.

Moving on to the kitchen, he starts checking the cupboards to find out whether the canned food and the forgotten box of cereal are really what they seem. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the tin of black pepper that sits right on the counter, when all the other spices are sorted away in the cupboard. He screws the lid open and looks at the content closely. Then he recognizes the scent reaching his nose.

Not pepper. Mountain ash.

He shakes a bit of it into his palm, considering.

Someone coughs behind his back. Stiles spins around, his hand clenching into a fist around the black powder.

Peter is standing in the doorway, looking at him.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses and his heart beats with terror, “fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that, you creepy fucking _psycho_.”

“Now, Stiles, that isn’t very nice,” Peter says mildly. “These ableist slurs really hurt my feelings.”

“Fuck your feelings,” Stiles says. “What are you doing here?”

“I was yearning for your company. What do you think, moron?” Peter rolls his eyes. “I saw your jeep parked around the block. I was... concerned. I wouldn’t want you to run into trouble. Has no one told you that it’s dangerous to sneak around without backup?”

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles says. The first rush of adrenaline has faded a little, but he’s still wary, still unsettled, ready to jump out of his skin any second.

“Aw,” Peter says. “You wound me, Stiles. Fine, I’ll answer your question – if you answer mine.” 

“Why would I tell you anything?”

“Really?” Peter asks and takes a step toward him. Stiles walks backwards until his back hits the counter.“Is that really how you’re going to play it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles say, cursing himself. Stupid, to let himself be surprised like this. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing as you,” Peter says. “Trying to find out where our little team of hunters has holed up. And since we’re on the same side –”

“We’re not!”

“... I suggest we... share our gathered intelligence, so to say,” Peter says, disregarding his objections.

It sounds like a good idea, on the surface. Stiles bites his lips. He knows better, is the thing, he knows better than to believe in anything Peter says. “And then?” he asks. “What if we find them?”

Peter smiles. “I’ll have a nice little chat with them.”

A chill runs over Stiles’ skin. “No.”

“Just a chat, Stiles,” Peter says, eyes fix on him, with a pleasant smile on his lips and steel in his eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t appreciate being made into someone’s puppet.”

“No,” Stiles blurt out. “You just want to be the one pulling the strings.”

Something flickers in Peter’s eyes. “Exactly.”

“I’m not going to...”

Peter takes another step toward him. “I am going to find out who is behind this,” he says. “Are you going to help me, or are you just going to wait until they decide to come back?

“What about Derek and Scott?”

Peter scoffs. “Please. Derek is still licking his wounds like a kicked puppy – metaphorically speaking, of course. Your little Scott? Does not have the guts to do what’s necessary. Probably hopes that the whole thing will blow over before he needs to act like the alpha he pretends to be.”

Stiles itches with the urge to say something scathing in retaliation, it’s already on his tongue, but then he closes his mouth again and swallows it down. Because the thing is, Peter isn’t wrong. 

He thinks of the way he felt that night, out of control, and how Peter was the one among the three of them who managed to keep _in_ control, in a way that allowed him to direct and virtually stage the whole thing.

And what might have happened if Peter hadn’t managed to.

Or what might have happened if Peter hadn’t _wanted_ to.

Something travels down his spine, it might be fear or something different entirely. “What do you intend to do with them?”

“A good question, isn’t it?” Peter says.

“You want vengeance,” Stiles says.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that,” Peter says. “Vengeance – that sounds so barbaric. Vengeance, a blood bath, someone’s intestines dripping from my claws... tempting, but no.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“Repayment, Stiles. Give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“You want to what – drug them? With the same stuff they used on us?”

Peter shrugs. Not a yes but certainly no denial either.

“No,” Stiles says. “No, that’s not... no.”

“What do you suggest, instead?” Peter asks, curious, as if he really wants to know. He holds Stiles’ gaze with a an intensity at odds with the overly casual tone of his voice.

“No!” Stiles says again. “We’re better than that, only because they did it to us doesn’t mean...”

Peter tilts his head to the side. “That’s exactly what your friend Scott would say, isn’t it? But you’re not like him, Stiles. Deep down you’re a lot more like me, that vicious little part of your soul that knows that nothing else will give you the same satisfaction as repaying something in kind.”

“No,” Stiles says. “I’m not going to help you rape those guys.” He doesn’t bother to argue the point because Peter is right, a part of Stiles wants that. He also knows better than to listen it.

“Because you _liked_ what they made you do?” Peter asks.

“I didn’t –” The denial dies on his lips as he looks at Peter. “They were just defending themselves. That doesn’t make it okay, but it could have been worse. Really. They could have come back to kill us while we were – you know. Busy.” It’s the same thing Scott said to him.

“And take the risk that the wolfsbane might have worn off, or that we might go feral? I don’t think so,” Peter says. “We were sufficiently distracted for the time being, so why bother? _You_ were the distraction, Stiles. They quite literally threw you to the wolves.”

The revelation runs through him like an electric shock. “Fuck,” he whispers, ashamed and turned on at the same time. Because _this_  – whatever this is – it’s making him _crazy._ His hands clench into fists at his side. He feels Peter’s gaze on him, triumphant and knowing.

“So,” Peter says, his voice very gentle and edged with something darker, something sharp and dangerous that makes another shiver travel down his spine. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you found out?”

Stiles’ heart is beating madly. He feels like he is standing at the edge of a precipice. He could tumble down there with just one word. Peter keeps looking at him, his gaze a thing that tags and pulls at him, and it would be so easy to take this last step.

“No,” Stiles says.

Peter moves toward him in a fluid, graceful motion, a predator moving in on his prey.

Stiles lifts his hand, palm up, and throws the mountain ash. A whirl of black colors the air. Peter snarls and hisses as it encloses him, forming a perfect circle. Trapping him.

For a second, the world stops. Stiles involuntarily holds his breath.

His first, shaky inhale comes with a wave of panic. What has he done. “I’m not going to tell you anything,” he says. His own voice is a distant buzz in his ears.

Within the ring of mountain ash, Peter holds himself very still. “Break the circle.”

“No.”

After a second, Peter shifts his weight a little bit and takes a more casual stance. “You know what I’ve always admired about you, Stiles?”

“My witty spirit?” Stiles asks, his voice wavering. He bites his lips.

“Your ability to act rationally under pressure. _Think,_ Stiles, what is this going to accomplish?” Peter cocks his head. “You know how little I appreciate being played for a fool.” His eyes don’t leave Stiles’ face. “You know I’m going to find them anyway. You might as well tell me.”

“No.”

Peter smiles in a way that is probably meant to be reassuring but really, really isn’t. “Fine. Then don’t tell me. Now be a good boy, break the circle.”

Stiles breath hitches. “No.” The realization comes belatedly, awareness of the consequences only just setting in. Its hits him full force, what he’s done. What has be been thinking? Peter is going to kill him. Peter is going to kill him, _slowly_ , and if Stiles doesn’t let him out, Peter is going to kill him anyway as soon as he finds someone else to release him.

“Listen to your heartbeat,” Peter says conversationally. “Scared half to death, like a rabbit. You haven’t thought this through at all, have you? I can smell your fear, Stiles. Let me out, you don’t need to be afraid of me.”

“You’re lying,” Stiles whispers. “You’re lying.”

“No,” Peter says. “Be a good boy, break the circle. You might even get a reward.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Lies, Stiles, you know I can sense them.” Peter sighs, then drops his voice to a murmur, low and honey-sweet. “Release me. I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.”

Stiles lifts his head and reluctantly meets his gaze. It’s a mistake. The predatory hunger in Peter’s eyes is a promise, turning fear into fire in his veins between one heartbeat and the next.

“Break the circle,” Peter whispers, and Stiles –

God help him, Stiles does.

 

****

XVII

Peter is on him not a second later, pushing him against the counter with a force that hurts and bruises. His fingers bury themselves in Stiles hair and he tugs, pulling Stiles’ head back. His other hand – clawed – trails down Stiles’ chest, down to the waistband of his pants. Stiles swallows with a dry throat and licks his lips. He isn’t scared. For some reason he’s no longer scared, even though Peter’s eyes bore into him, the blue brighter than it should be.

“Don’t do that again,” Peter says, his voice even more clipped and precise than usual. “There is nothing I hate more than being trapped. Do you understand?” He pulls Stiles’ head back even further, baring his throat. “You are a fool,” Peter says with a snarl, but then his lips press against Stiles’ skin and Stiles moans. “I should spank you, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles says, feeling Peter’s teeth against his jugular. “Not that.”

“Then what do you want, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. “You know what I want.”

“Yes,” Peter says. “I know.”

He kisses Stiles with a demanding force that leaves him breathless and dizzy, gasping for air, then again, slower and expertly dirty and without relinquishing control. His hands move to Stiles’ belt and Stiles does nothing to stop him. He moans helplessly as Peter breaks the kiss to bite his neck and spin him around, his strength rendering any resistance Stiles could possibly offer utterly futile. A part of Stiles revels in it, how easily Peter dominates him. Only a part, but it’s enough to keep him in place, to make him close his eyes as Peter’s lips travel down his spine, as Peter’s hands lay new bruises over old ones.

Minutes later, he’s bent over the kitchen counter, worked open on Peter’s fingers and Peter’s tongue, and _filled_ – fuck, he’s missed this, it hasn’t been three days since he last got fucked and he’s _missed_ it – and Peter feels so fucking good inside of him, forcing sounds from him, grunts, groans and, Stiles wishes he could deny it, the occasional pathetic whine.

Peter pulls out right before he comes, spilling all over Stiles’ ass and lower back. The hot spurts feel like ember on his overheated skin, on the beard burn covering the back of his thighs. Peter pulls him off the counter, turning him around. “Down.”

Stiles goes to his knees and takes Peter’s cock in his mouth without further prompting. Peter hisses as Stiles sucks slowly, relishing how Peter hardens in his mouth. “Enough,” Peter says after a couple of minutes, fully hard again. He pulls Stiles up by his shoulders and steers him into the living room where he sits back on the couch. Half-naked and erect, he should look ridiculous, but he doesn’t, not at all. The clean, powerful lines of his chest and his thighs, his body hard and mature in a way that Derek’s isn’t, the control he’s exerting: it’s an irresistible allure that draws Stiles in, that makes him straddle Peter and slide down onto his dick. His eyes fall shut as he breathes in and out, getting used to the stretch, the hardness inside of him where he’s vulnerable and open. He shivers as Peter’s nails, not-quite-claws, run down his spine. He doesn’t open his eyes again, not even as he starts to move. It takes his breath away, how it feels, how Peter holds him in place but lets him set the pace for once. His hands find purchase on Peter’s shoulders and then he can’t help but let them wander down his chest, over the hard, muscular planes of his pecs, feeling the power, the strength underneath. Fuck. What is he doing. What is he even doing.

But who he’s doing is Peter, apparently, and Peter’s content to let Stiles take what he wants, pushing into him with the slightest amount of movement, offering him just enough resistance to help him build a rhythm. It goes on for a long time. Stiles feels out of control, but he doesn’t have the excuse of being drugged this time. His next inhale is almost a sob.

Peter huffs out a laugh under him. “Something you need, Stiles?” he asks, and squeezes Stiles’ ass. Stiles sneaks one hand from Peter’s shoulder to close around his dick.

“No,” Peter says, catching his wrist and pulling it up. “You’re going to come on my cock, or not at all.”

“Please,” Stiles whispers. The begging comes easily. “Please, fuck me.”

Peter’s breath is hot against his ear. “What was that? Do you want me to take control, Stiles? Is that it?”

Stiles shudders and moans. The nod comes easily, more easily than the words he knows Peter is holding out for. “Yeah. Please – Peter.”

He’s unceremoniously lifted, turned around and pushed over, his back hitting the couch. A second later Peter is inside of him again, bent over him and fucking him, and Stiles finally gives up and just... _surrenders,_ he thinks, and it feels so fucking good. He does come on Peter’s dick after what feels like an eternity, with a raw sound torn from his throat, and then lies there semi-conscious and limp while Peter fucks into him a couple more times and comes as well, teeth bared in a soundless snarl. Stiles closes his eyes, just for a second.

When he opens them again after what might be minutes, or half an hour, Peter is already gone.

 

****

XVIII

Stiles doesn’t think. He doesn’t think at all while he gets dressed, while he collects his backpack, his car keys, while he leaves the apartment in a trance-like state.

He sinks down onto the driver’s seat, the jeep surrounding him with the familiar scent of leather and mold. The steering wheel is hard and blessedly _real_ under his hands, grounding him in a way that only few other things can. He’s close to a panic attack, feels it announce itself in the dryness of his throat, the pounding of his head. He swallows – swallows again. Tries to calm himself down, breathing through his nose, focusing on nothing but his breath. In and out, in and out.

After a while, he starts the engine. Drives, blindly and unfocused, knowing he needs to go home. But if he goes home, his father will take one look at him and immediately know something’s wrong.

 

****

XIX

“Stiles,” Derek says, opening the door before Stiles has the chance to knock. “What do you want?”

His voice, while not especially friendly, is like a lifeline that keeps him from drowning. Stiles takes a deep breath in sheer relief. “Hi,” he says, hearing his own voice as something distant, something thin and lifeless.

Derek looks at him. His eyes widen and he inhales sharply. “What happened?”

“Peter,” Stiles says. His teeth are chattering.

“What did he do? Stiles?”

“You can probably smell it,” Stiles says. “What do I smell like?”

“Sex,” Derek says. “Anxiety. Stress. Stiles, did he –”

“No. No. It wasn’t – he didn’t – he didn’t _make_ me, if that’s what you think.”

Derek stares at him, an unhappy frown on his face. “Let’s go inside,” he says, closing one hand around Stiles’ wrist. He tugs softly. Stiles follows him.

Derek pushes him onto the couch and sinks down in front of him. “Easy, it’s all right. You’re safe.” He takes Stiles’ hands in his. The tiniest hint of black flows through his veins as an ache Stiles hadn’t even been aware of disappears, soreness in his ass, stiffness in his shoulders. Derek doesn’t let go, keeps his hands on Stiles' forearms, not a restraint, just a careful hold.

Stiles takes another deep breath. “I fucked up.”

“What happened?” Derek asks for the second time.

“I let him get to me,” Stiles says. “I was stupid, I should just have run – but now it feels like he’s in my head and I can’t get him out.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Derek asks with a frown.

Somehow it’s easier to breathe now, with Derek this close. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” It comes out less coherent than planned, a messy jumble of ‘and then’ and ‘you know’. 

“And then –” he says at last, “and then I – and I don’t know why I did it. I mean, I _know_ him, and I _despise_ him, I do, but I still...”

“Stiles.” Derek’s hands are fix points where they’re touching Stiles, anchoring him. “I know. He’s good at that, getting into your head. I have no idea how he does it – but. I _know_.”

“He does it to you to you too, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Derek says. “It was worse when I was your age. I didn’t realize what he was doing back then. He has this way of putting ideas in your head until you start to believe they were yours to begin with.”

Stiles swallows. “When we – that night, was that –” if there’s a polite way to ask someone whether they used to have sex with their uncle as a teenager, it’s currently eluding him. “You and he – did you – were you – _before_? You know.”

“No. It wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t have tried, not with mom around.”

“But he wanted to?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says. “Not really, not like that, I don’t think so. It was always about paying attention to him. Listening to him.”

“Control,” Stiles says. “And power.”

“Yes,” Derek says. “But if that were all, it wouldn’t be so hard to say no to him – to hate him. But he has this other side as well, sometimes, where he’s perfectly charming, reasonable – protective.”

“Like a part of him still cares,” Stiles says. “He did care about Cora, didn’t he? And he cares about you.”

“Maybe,” Derek says. “But he didn’t care about Laura.” Stiles shudders. “Did he hurt you?” Derek asks, his fingers tightening a little around Stiles’ wrists.

“No,” Stiles says. “It's just... I can’t believe I _let_ him. I can’t believe I _asked_ for it.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Stiles takes a hitching breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah, okay.”

“It’ll be all right,” Derek says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But – I know who he is, and I –”

“He wouldn’t hurt you,” Derek says. “He thinks you’re part of the pack.”

“How’d you figure?”

Derek averts his eyes, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones. “It’s how it works, for wolves.”

“Huh?”

“When you sleep with someone, it creates – some kind of bond. Temporarily. Nothing permanent, it fades after a while when you’re not together. Still, it’s ... some kind of imperative, a protective urge. It can be very powerful.”

“You mean, when we had sex...”

“Pack. You became pack. Hurting your pack goes against every instinct we have. Peter is many things, but he’s also a wolf, first and foremost. He wouldn’t do that, not without a really good reason.”

“So what you’re saying is that having sex with Peter is... some kind of life insurance?”

“No!” Derek immediately says. “No, that’s not – well. In a way. But that doesn’t mean that you should keep doing it, not if you don’t want to.”

Stiles focuses on that for a second. “Okay.” He mentally rewinds their conversation in his head. “Wait. Do you feel that way too?“

Derek sits up straight. He clears his throat and looks adorably flustered for a second. “A little.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Not that different, actually.” Derek shuts his mouth abruptly and winces.

Stiles blinks. “Um. Does that mean – you – what are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” Derek say. “Just that – you feel like pack anyway.”

“So, no changes?”

“It’s just more intense.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “You probably feel the same way toward Scott, right? What with him being your wolf brother, or something.” Derek makes a non-committal noise. Stiles takes it for agreement. “Okay. So, what do we do now?”

“You should go home. Don’t you have a curfew? Your father will be worried.”

“I’ll think of something to tell him.”

“You shouldn’t lie to him.”

“What, you want me to tell him I had sex with our crazy uncle instead?” Derek winces. “Though that _could_ solve the problem. I only need to make sure dad uses wolfsbane bullets when he goes after Peter.” He doesn’t want his father to go after Peter. The though alone is enough to send a cold shiver of panic down his spine. “No. Better not.”

“Come on,” Derek says, getting to his feet effortlessly, like he hasn’t been kneeling on the floor for the last fifteen minutes. “Let’s get you home.”

What should come out as mildly sarcastic sounds weary even to his own ears. “Are you going to escort me to my door?”

Derek doesn’t rise to the bait. “Yes,” he says with a shrug.

Stiles should probably be affronted, but all he feels is a secret bit of relief. “What do we do about the hunters?”

“ _You_ shouldn’t do anything”, Derek says. “But we’ll keep an eye out for them.”

“What if Peter goes after them?” Stiles argues, or tries to, anyway.

“I’ll keep an eye on him too,” Derek says. “You go home, get some sleep. A shower.”

“Good point,” Stiles says, trying not to think about the way he must smell to Derek’s sensitive nose. For some reason, the thought makes him cringe. Which is kind of weird, because after the initial confrontation, he hadn’t been all that bothered by Scott’s noticeable discomfort.

He drives home. In the passenger seat beside him, Derek keeps quiet, but his presence is oddly comforting. As Stiles pulls up in the driveway Derek gets out of the car to hide in the darkness between the flower beds and the fence. “I’ll wait here until you get to your room.”

Stiles nods and turns to go. “Thank you,” he says. “For... you know. And I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Derek says softly, his face hidden in the shadows.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, wishing he could see Derek’s expression. “Good night.”

 

****

XX

His father is already home. Stiles manages to fabricate a passable story of how he lost his phone and had to go looking for it, explaining why he’s late and why he didn’t call. If his father notices anything out of the ordinary, he doesn’t let it show. Stiles retreats to the safety of his bedroom, trying to come up with a plan of how to proceed.

Exhaustion weighs him down and he’s asleep on his bed within minutes.

 

****

XXI

He wakes in the morning with a new sense of clarity. Time to face the truth, own it, and move on. Yes, he slept with Peter. Okay, so it was an incredibly bad idea, but he’s seventeen, he’s allowed to make bad decisions. And it’s fine. He’s not going to do it again. He’s also not going to be ashamed of it.

That’s the theory, at least.

In any case, he has more important things to consider, because what he’s going to do is find those hunters. It’s something he can do, something he can figure out. He’s good at figuring things out, it’s easier than figuring out himself.

Stiles spends most of Tuesday trying to come up with a way to track down Hannah Ridley now that he has her mother’s number. He can’t use the same excuse he used at the shop, so he has to come up with another one that’s simple and plausible and gets him where he wants to be. Oh, and hope that the shop assistant hasn’t told Mrs Ridley about him.

He makes the phone call during his free period right after lunch. “Hello, Mrs Ridley?” He waits for confirmation before apologizing for the inconvenience. “It’s Steve, Steve Masters. I went to school with Hannah, Beacon Park High. We had English together. I’ve been trying to reach her. The thing is, I’ve found a couple of books that she lent me ages ago – really, like, _ages_. I was going through my old stuff because I’m moving next week, and now I’m trying to get a hold of her and ask her whether she wants them back, or something. But it turns out I don’t have her number.”

Mrs Ridley is sufficiently impressed. Stiles gets Hannah’s number out of her as intended. He decides to take a risk. “She isn’t, by any chance, in Beacon Hills right now? Because I’d love to give those books back to her in person, and maybe some kind of, you know, chocolates, or maybe you could tell me what kind of candy she likes best. As an apology, I mean, I’d completely forgotten about these books. I’ve had them for years. She never reminded me either.”

Mrs Ridley tells him he's welcome to bring the books to her house. She tells him that Hannah likes truffles. “I haven’t seen her in a few days,” she says. “She’s living with her boyfriend, Jerry.”

“Jerry?” Stiles asks, brain ticking furiously. “Tall, dark hair, beard?” A gamble, but neither Shirtless Guy nor Plaid Shirt aka R. Warner looked like boyfriend material.

“That’s him,” Mrs Ridley says. “Oh, and she called on Saturday to tell me they’d be out of town for a few days, with a friend of hers who has a lake house in Greenridge.”

A lake house? Really? Because one cabin in the woods isn’t enough? But at least Greenridge isn’t that big, it’s mostly a couple of weekend homes scattered around the lake. Lydia’s family has a house up there as well. If that’s where the hunters are hiding, finding them shouldn’t be a problem. “Thank you, Mrs Ridley,” Stiles says politely. “I’ll give her a call.”

“If you talk to her, would you please remind her that her father’s birthday is next Saturday?” Mrs Ridley says.

“Will do,” Stiles says and ends the call with another few empty phrases.

Greenridge. It’s one and a half hour’s drive, but his father is on the night shift today and Stiles can easily skip class for once, he hasn’t missed a day since the beginning of the term. Worth a try. If the hunters have been hiding there, he needs to know. Stiles turns the ignition key.

 

****

XXII

At the gas station slash convenience store in Greenridge, Stiles doesn’t bother with subtlety, he just goes in and asks, describing Hannah, Bearded Guy aka Boyfriend Jerry and what he can remember of Plaid Shirt and Shirtless Guy – not actually a lot. He’s lucky, though; the cashier frowns, scratches his beard and says, “Yeah, sure. They’re at the east end of the lake. It’s the green house at the bend of the road, you can’t really miss it.”

Stiles refuels and gets back into the jeep, following the narrow slope that counts for a road up here. Most houses are lakeside, at his right. He finds the green house the cashier mentioned, parks the car down the road and tries to be stealthy as he bushwhacks his way through the undergrowth of thorny leaves and vines to get a little closer. He feels reminded of the last time he did this and bites his lip, slowing down for a moment. Then he tells himself he’s not going to make the same mistake twice – he’s just going to get a better look, find out whether they’re really there. He ducks down beside the half-collapsed mossy stone wall surrounding the premises.

He can see a familiar SUV parked in the driveway. It’s a brown Toyota – does anyone around here drive anything else these days? - and next to it, he can see the pick-up truck, rusty, dark red and ugly as fuck.

In any case, he’s obviously at the right address. His heart beats faster with excitement. At least the long drive wasn’t for nothing. He advances toward the lakeside, hoping to get a better view of the back of the house, maybe a glimpse of what’s going on inside. It’s not a great distance, maybe twenty feet until he can see the unmown lawn behind the house and the small landing stage with a half-sunken rowboat tied to a lone wooden stake where the stage has become a mere memory, splintered wood and reed and water lilies.

A twig snaps behind him. Stiles flinches and turns his head in reflex as a man clears his throat. “Get to you feet and turn around, slowly.”

With the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare, Stiles obeys. Plaid Shirt Guy, who must be R. Warner, stands right behind him with a gun in hand, staring him down with steely eyes. “Kid,” he says, “you really shouldn’t have come here.”

 

****

XXIII

They turn his phone off, tie him up and gag him and put him in the _fucking trunk._ It’s all Stiles can do to try not to panic while he’s trapped in darkness and silence, left alone while his legs start to cramp and he breathes through his nose, clinging to the hope that the fact that he’s still alive means they don’t intend to kill him. Time passes, he doesn’t know how much, maybe half an hour before he hears footsteps on gravel, voices arguing. A car door slams and then the engine is started.

Stiles fights off a panic attack and tells himself that if he just keeps breathing, everything will be all right, the only thing he absolutely _mustn’t_ do is pass out or throw up, anything that puts him in the danger of suffocating. He lies there bound and shaking, hoping he’ll somehow get out of this alive. He’s willing to beg if there’s a chance they’ll let him go.

They keep driving for a long time. At first the roads are bumpy and the car keeps speeding up and slowing down in turn; then, after taking one final turn, it accelerates and drives at a fairly consistent speed for a long while. The interstate, Stiles guesses. It goes on for wat feels like hours while he fights dizziness and nausea the urge to scream and and thrash around. Then finally the car starts taking turns again, slows down and comes to a standstill. The engine is turned off at last.

Stiles grows alert. He tries to stretch his cramped limbs, mentally preparing for the moment the trunk is opened. When it happens, he still isn’t ready for it and blinks into the darkness of a non-descript parking place, shivering as cold air hits him. It’s only then that he truly realizes how cold he is and how stiff. Warner is staring down at him and Shirtless Guy, who is currently wearing a hoodie and a nasty smirk. Warner aims his gun at him. “Quiet,” he says. “Don’t try anything, or you’ll spend the night in the trunk. Got it?”

Stiles isn’t stupid, He nods and swallows with difficulty.

They untie his feet. Warner keeps the gun aimed at him while Hoodie Guy pulls him upright and out of the trunk, steadying him as Stiles fights to stand with his legs gone dead. They drag him across the parking lot and inside an abandoned warehouse. It’s somewhere in a run-down industrial complex, surrounded by a couple of neighboring buildings that seem deserted as well. They’re definitely no longer in Beacon Hills. Stiles can hear the interstate, no more than a mile or two away.

They enter the warehouse through the side door. It’s dusty and dark, a lot of empty, echoing space. The only light comes from two portable lamps in the center of the room where Hannah Ridley is sitting and unrolling camping mats and sleeping bags. Meanwhile Boyfriend Jerry goes through a pile of trash in the right corner to retrieve a couple of old pallets and throw them onto the floor as makeshift chairs.

Warner pushes Stiles onto one of them. “Stay there, don’t move.”

Stiles obeys, pathetically grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs and the free space  
that allows him to just breathe. Around him, the hunters are busy unloading stuff from their cars, apparently preparing to spend the night. Run-down seems to be a recurring theme with these guys.

“I’ll go get something to eat”, Hoodie Guy announces, which leads to a chorus of voices ordering different kinds of fries, salad and soft drinks. Stiles’ stomach growls. Worse than that is the thirst but he doesn’t want bring attention to himself by asking for water.

Hoodie Guy and Jerry both leave the warehouse and Hannah sits down on her sleeping bag. “What about him?” she asks, tilting her head toward Stiles.

“Right,” Warner says with a sigh, and steps toward him. “Listen, kid. You play nice, you might yet get out of this alive, how’s that sound?”

Stiles nods. Warner looks at him, considering, then he bends down and pulls off the duct tape. It burns and Stiles winces, but doesn’t complain.

“Here’s how it works. You be a good boy, answer a couple of questions for me. How did you find us?”

Stiles licks his dry lips. “Research.” His voice, unused for too long, is hoarse, and he clears his throat. “Dude, you weren’t that hard to find.”

“Where are the wolves?”

“Not here,” Stiles says. “Obviously.”

Out of nowhere, Warner backhands him across the face, and Stiles feels like his head explodes. He tastes blood. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Any more smartass remarks?” Warner asks pleasantly. “Or do you want to start to cooperate? Where are the wolves?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says.

“Stop lying to me,” Warner says. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “Believe it or not.”

“What, you want us to believe that you went looking for us without backup?”

“What can I say, I’m just that good.” That stupid, more like.

Warner shakes his head. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“Someone had to go and find out what you guys were up to,” Stiles says. “We don’t need any more hunters on our territory.”

“Hunters?” Hannah asks from where she’s sitting on a pallet, listening. “Is that what you think we are?”

“Uh – yeah? What with the wolfbane –”

“We aren’t hunters,” Hannah says.

“Then what are you?”

“That’s not your business,” Warner says, shooting Hannah a warning glance.

“Seeing as you fucking whammied us with wolfsbane –”

“That wasn’t –” Hannah starts, looking looking positively stricken. Warner glares at her but she shakes her head. “That was an accident.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says. “Because that’s likely. You just _accidentally_ threw some werewolf rape drug at us.”

“I overreacted!” she says. “I thought it would distract you. I was trying to get away. If you hadn’t barged in on us like that –”

“Shut up,” Warner growls at her. “There’s no fucking reason to -”

She gets to her feet, putting her hand on her hips. “No. Listen, Rick, if we tell them, maybe they’ll leave us alone. They just went after us because they thought we’re hunters.”

Warner considers her words, grimacing, then he nods.

Hannah purses her lips as she looks at Stiles. “You don’t believe me, fine. I don’t care. But the truth is, I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt, I just didn’t want you to kill us. We were just minding our own business and it’s got nothing to do with you, or your pack.”

“What _is_ your fucking business?”

“Are you really that stupid?” she asks. “What do you why we came to Beacon Hills in the first place?”

Stiles stares at her.

“The nemeton,” she says. “It amplifies anything magical.”

“Huh?”

“The plants, they’re more potent. They’ve got more...” she makes a twisted gesture with her hand. “More _juice_.”

“But what do you need them for, if you aren’t hunters?”

Warner laughs. “We sell them.” He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, kid, use your brain. You know what that stuff did to you and the wolves. It’s not meant to be used in combat, it’s meant to be inhaled _in small doses._ ” He snorts. “Plenty of fun, in the right environment. Some people pay _really_ well for it.”

“You’re – you’re _drug dealers_?” Stiles asks, bewildered. “Are you kidding me?”

Warner shakes his head. “With the right connections, you can make a small fortune with a niche product like that.”

“Riiight,” Stiles says. “Sorry we trashed your secret weed plantation, or something.” For a second, he’s afraid that his sarcasm will earn him another slap, but Warner only shrugs.

“It won’t be a problem. There are other places if you know what you’re looking for. Now that we have Hannah on board, she’s going to be a good girl and find them for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a druid,” Warner says. “She’s can sense the nemeton and draw on its power.”

“A druid? Seriously?” Stiles asks her. “And this is what, your idea of ‘maintaing balance’?” At least it explains the mountain ash.

She shrugs, overly casual. “I’m not actually a druid. They made it pretty clear I wasn’t good enough for their elitist little circle.”

“And now you’re doing what, selling your talents to the highest bidder?”

“Something like that,” she says. “We make a lot of money. Do you have any idea what tuition costs? Ever heard of student loans? In any case, it’s not your business. I don’t need another judgmental asshole on my back. The druids are bad enough, with their code and their rules and their secret handshake.”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles sasys. “They’re not that bad.” Does Hannah know Deaton? It seems likely. It would explain why Deaton was asking about her specifically. Isn’t it a family thing? Is her mother one too? Which reminds him. “By the way,” Stiles says. “Your mom says hi. She told me to remind you your dad’s birthday is next week.”

Her eyes narrow down to slits. “You talk too much.”

“You _both_ talk too much,” Warner says.

Jerry uses that moment to come in through the front door again. “Everything looks quiet out there.”

“Keep on looking,” Warner says. “Where is your gun?”

Jerry pats the gun tucked into his waistband. “Don’t be so fucking paranoid. They won't find us here.”

“Like they didn’t find us in Greenridge?” Warner says. “The kid has a pack out there, they’re going to come looking for him, sooner or later.” Stiles sure hopes so. His pack, and his father, but it’s going to take them a while to realize he’s gone. He’ll just have to keep holding out. Jerry sighs, but he leaves without further complaint. “You know what?” Warner says. “I’ll go and have a look for myself and take a leak while I’m at it. You stay here, make sure the boy isn’t going anywhere. Give him some water. And for fuck’s sake, stop talking to him.”

He leaves the warehouse as well. Hannah watches him go, then reaches for a water bottle, unscrews the lid and get up to holds it for Stiles. He gulps the water down, some of it trickling down his chin. “Thanks,” he says. “You know it’s a test, right? He’s probably waiting outside and listening.”

She scowls at him. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“But you’re still the new girl,” Stiles says. “Aren’t you?”

She steps back with a shrug. “I don’t mind. We’re not the bad guys, we just want what everyone wants, easy money.”

“You know, I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of Breaking Bad,” Stiles says.

“This stuff isn’t like Crystal Meth,” she says. “And it’s not like we’re selling it to High Schoolers or anything.”

“It’s just mind-altering, takes away your agency, and puts you at risk of being either raped or eaten by werewolves,” Stiles says. “Yeah, got it.”

She looks away. “That’s only because you got an overdose. I’m sorry for that, believe it or not.”

And for some reason, Stiles _does_ believe her. He just doesn’t know whether that makes it better or worse. “You said you weren’t the bad guys,” he says instead. “Then why did you kidnap me?”

She rolls her eyes. “If we had let you go, you would have called your pack and gone after us. And if we had just tied you up and left you there? Maybe your pack would have found you. Or not. Or maybe the police would have gotten there first and have _actual_ evidence against us. No. This way, we got a head start _and_ a hostage. We’ll let you go as soon as we’re far enough from Beacon Hills to be sure your pack won’t come after us.”

Fuck. If Stiles isn’t back home in the morning, his father will go berserk. “They won’t,” he says. “I promise. I’ll tell them not to, all right? If you just let me go, I promise we won’t go after you.”

She bites her lips but shakes her head. “How about _no_. Feel free to ask Rick any time, though, he likes a good laugh.”

The door opens. “I actually don’t think that he feels like laughing right now,” Peter says.

Stiles takes in a sharp breath. Hannah’s eyes widen in fear as she spins around. Peter tosses – there’s no other word for it, he literally _tosses_ Warner at her feet, halfway across the room.

“He appears to be – what you might call ‘indisposed’,” Peter continues gently, and strides up to them while Hannah’s gaze darts around wildly. There’s no way out.

“Careful,” Stiles says. “She’s a druid. The mountain ash was hers.”

Peter slows his steps to a halt, tilting his head to the side. “Is she, now?”

Behind him, Derek appears. The wave of relief hits Stiles with full force. He sags in his restraints, exhaling deeply, almost dizzy with it. Peter is an unknown quantity at best, but Derek... Derek is here. It’ll be okay. He drags Jerry along and drops him on the floor, moaning and barely conscious.

“Derek,” Peter says. “Take care of him.” He approaches Hannah, his eyes fix on her.

“No,” Stiles says. “Don’t. Don’t kill her. Don’t kill any of them.”

Then Derek is at his side, his claws slicing through the ropes. He pulls Stiles up and into his arms. Stiles buries his face in Derek’s shoulder, because he can, and because it’s such a fucking relief. “I mean it,” he says, muffled, into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, letting himself sink into Derek’s arms. Derek is holding him like he never wants to let Stiles go. Which is fine by Stiles, he’s right where he wants to be. _Oh._ He blinks, distracted for a moment.

“Why not?” Peter says. “Tell me one good reason.”

Right, they are in the middle of something here. Stiles frees himself from Derek’s embrace at last. “Because they could have killed me but they didn’t,” Stiles says. “They aren’t hunters, they’re just drug dealers. You don’t want their blood on your hands. Let them go.”

“They hurt you,” Peter says, but he’s not looking at Stiles. He has Hannah backed against the wall, shaking, her arms up in surrender.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, because it’s true. He also needs Peter to understand that it could have been so much worse. “But not as much as they could have had. I’m fine, really, or I will be, let’s just get back home.”

“Get him out of here,” Peter says, looking at Derek, not at Stiles.

That, Stiles decides, won’t do. He take a step toward Peter. “You know, you can stop ignoring me right the fuck now,” he says, wondering how his voice can sound so firm, so decisive. “I’m right in front of you. I’m telling you to let them go. Yes, they fucked up. So did we. Let’s just get out of here.”

Finally Peter meets his eyes. They’re wolf eyes, blue and cold, but Stiles is done with being scared of him. “Get a fucking grip,” he says. “Vengeance just for the sake of it is _so_ last century. Let them go, they’re not going to come back any time soon.”

Peter stares at him, tilting his head. Considering. “As you wish,” he finally says. His eyes wander over to Hannah. “Consider this your one and only warning,” he says. “If you ever come back to Beacon Hills, there will be no mercy.”

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Her parents live there. She has to be allowed to visit, at least.” The look of astonishment on her face would be hilarious under different conditions.

Peter narrows his eyes. “No longer than three days at a time.”

Stiles looks at her, raising an eyebrow in question. She nods, eyes wide and grateful. “Okay,” Stiles says. “Fine. We’re done here. Now just give me back my stuff, and we’ll be out of here.”

It takes a few moments for Hannah to obey and start digging for his keys, his phone and his wallet in one of the bags they unloaded from the truck. Warner starts stirring on the floor, groaning. If Jerry is still conscious, he's doing a good job at pretending not to be.

Finally they leave. Stiles waits until Peter is outside before casting one last glance at Hannah. She meets his gaze, then nods. Stile shrugs and walks out of the door, Derek behind him.

Derek’s car is parked a half a mile down the road. They walk in silence, still on high alert, and it’s not until they finally reach the car that Peter casts one last glance in the direction of the warehouse with narrow eyes and then turns toward Derek. Derek wordlessly pulls his car keys out of his pocket and offers them to him.

Peter rises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Derek doesn’t say anything. He waits for Peter to take the keys, then simply opens the back door and beckons for Stiles to get in. Too tired to argue, glad that there’s a place for him to get some rest, Stiles obeys. Derek follows him.

While Peter takes the driver’s seat and starts the engine, Stiles stares at Derek. Derek looks at him for a long moment, face unreadable, and then lifts his arm, a silent invitation. Stiles gratefully accepts it, lets himself sink against Derek, burying his face in his shoulder, telling himself he’s just accepting comfort, not taking advantage. “Thanks for coming to get me,” he murmurs. “How did you even know they had me?”

Peter huffs out a laugh from the driver’s seat. “I’ve been following you around. Derek’s been following me.”

“Figures,” Stiles says, and that’s the last thing he says. He doesn’t fall asleep, but he hides his face in Derek’s shirt, inhaling Derek’s scent with every breath. With Derek holding him, he slowly feels the tension and anxiety drain away to the point where he can stop thinking, at least for a while.

 

****

XXIV

It’s past midnight as they arrive back in Beacon Hills. Peter turns off the engine in front of the house. Stiles lifts his head from Derek’s shoulder. Derek’s arm is curled loosely around his waist. For all intents and purposes, they’ve been cuddling for the last hundred miles.

“Your father isn’t home,” Derek says.

“Night shift,” Stiles says, with a yawn. Derek arm slides away as Stiles sits up and stretches.

Derek gets out first, offering Stiles a hand. “You want me to come in for a moment?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. A part of him wants to insist that he doesn’t need Derek’s help, he’s fine. But that isn’t true. If this day has taught him anything, it’s that there are situations that he can’t handle on his own. The worst thing is that it’s his own fault, that he brought the whole thing on himself. But while he knows that he really doesn’t deserve Derek’s attention and care, he’s too weak and selfish to reject it. Maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to lean on Derek for a little longer. “Yes, please.”

 

****

XXV

Inside, Stiles turns the lights on and hangs up his hoodie. His first stop is the kitchen. He’s too tired to eat, but he drinks juice and water and offers food and something to drink to Derek, who declines. He turns his phone on again. Three messages from Scott, one from his father. He answers them, making up excuses without really having to think about it. Then he trudges upstairs. Derek follows him quietly.

“I’d like to take a shower,” Stiles says. He picks up sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear after.

Derek throws his jacket on the bed and sits down on a chair, picking up one of Stiles’ books. “I’ll just wait here. Take your time.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Okay.”

The hot waters is like a cleansing of both his skin and his soul, washing away sweat and grime, the smell of the trunk, and the rest of his anxiety, leaving only exhaustion behind. He dries and dresses, all in autopilot mode, and returns to his bedroom. Derek is still sitting on his chair, but he looks up from the book as Stiles enters the room. “Everything okay?”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess. I’m just really fucking glad that you got me out of there.”

“As much as I’d love to take credit for it,” Derek says dryly, “but if it hadn’t been for Peter, I wouldn’t even have known you were missing.”

“Is it true, that you were following him?”

“I promised you I’d keep an eye on him,” Derek says.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d really –”

“Keep my word?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to actually follow him around. But I’m glad you did.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Derek says.

“Huh?”

Derek shrugs. “I got you into this mess in the first place.”

Stiles stares at him. “You’re not actually feeling guilty for that, are you?” Derek avoids his eyes. "Yeah, you can stop doing that,” Stiles says. “I’m capable of making my own decisions, and I’m also capable of fucking up all on my own.” Derek looks like he wants to argue. Stiles rolls his eyes. “Right. So I’ll be going to bed.”

Derek closes his mouth and nods. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks softly. “I can stay sleep downstairs, on the couch. I’ll leave through the back door when your father comes home.”

Stiles slides under the comforter. “You can sleep here, if you want,” he offers with a yawn. “Bed’s big enough.”

“If you want to,” Derek says hesitantly.

Stiles sleepily murmurs his assent. After a few moments, clothes rustle and two boots that are dropped on the floor, Stiles feels the mattress dip as Derek gets on the bed.

Stiles turns around to face him. “Hi,” he mutters.

Derek’s eyes are dark and inscrutable. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

“Mhm,” Stiles says, and closes his eyes. He reaches for Derek, telling himself it’s just for reassurance. He makes contact with Derek’s chest, feels Derek exhale under his fingertips. Then Derek’s fingers close around his, holding his hand in place, warm and secure. Stiles sleeps.

 

****

XXVI

The sound of the alarm clock in the morning is nothing short of brutal. Stiles wakes with a massive headache and the distinct desire to skip school entirely. He rolls over and buries his face in the sheets. Derek’s smell lingers and it makes another little piece fall in place in Stiles’ mind. He takes a deep breath, then gets up anyway. He calls Scott for a ride because as far as he knows, his jeep is still in Greenridge.

Compelled by something that feels suspiciously like guilt he makes coffee and toast for his dad, and barely refrains from putting them on a tray and surprising him with breakfast in bed, which would be such an obvious admission of filial misconduct that he might as well put a sign on his head. _Father, I have sinned._

At school, Scott manages to get the whole story out of him in bits and pieces. Minus the porny bits. Stiles gets berated a lot for not asking for help, to the point where he winces every time Scott opens his mouth. “New rule,” Scott says with a grim expression. “Before you go and do something stupid, you call me.”

“So we can do something stupid together?”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds legit,” Stiles says.

After school, Scott drives him to Greenridge, where Stiles is reunited with his jeep. The lake house is deserted and trashed, which is probably Peter’s doing. Stiles can’t say he feels bad about that. They return to Beacon Hills where Stiles spends the rest of the day catching up with his homework and staring at his brand new dildo in a mixture of awe and terror.

 

****

XXVII

“So when you said I shouldn’t do anything stupid without telling you first,” he says to Scott on Thursday morning. “Did you mean that?”

Scott’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Yeah. What are you –”

“Fine,” Stiles says. “Does propositioning Derek count, what do you think?”

Scott splutters and chokes on air. “Dude!” he says after clearing his throat.

“What?”

Scott glares at him.

 

****

XXVIII

Before Stiles can actually put his plans into motion, there’s something else he needs to take care of, even though that probably ranks pretty high on his personal scale of stupidity. He’s also breaking another rule, but there’s really no way to avoid it this time.

Stiles drives to an apartment complex downtown. Cora told him Peter’s address months ago, and he _knew_ the information would be useful one day. He has no apartment number, but it’s not that difficult to figure out. Take the apartment with the best view, third or fourth floor at the most because even werewolves don’t like to jump higher than they have to, then, when you’re left with two to three apartments, go looking for expensive leather shoes and the plainest of door mats. The nameplate says P. Harley, which is a lot less subtle than Stiles thought it would be.

He rings, flinching when Peter opens while his finger is still on the doorbell. “Hello,” he says, willing to play nice for once. “Can I come in for a second?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter says, making Stiles feel like a fool for asking. “What do you want?”

“To talk,” Stiles says.

“To talk.” Peter makes no attempt to conceal his scepticism. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Stiles says.

Peter smirks, inclines his head and steps aside. “Well. On second thought, why don’t you come in?”

The door locks behind him with a soft click and Stiles swallows. The apartment is artistically austere, slate gray tiles, white walls, the furniture made of steel and glass. The living room is more of the same, accentuated with colors: a book shelf, filled with books from floor to ceiling, a colorful patchwork rug; dark red pillows on a black leather couch, matching the curtains that are drawn back to provide an exceptional view of the hills and the preserve. Soft music is playing on the hi-fi system that probably costs more than Stiles’ father earns in a month, making the flatscreen TV look tiny and cheap in comparison. The adjacent kitchen area is a chef’s dream in matted steel, countertops made of something that might be actual marble.

“You know what they say, Stiles, about cats and curiosity,” Peter, who has followed him into the living room, says.

“Where do you get the money to pay the rent?” Stiles says.

Peter shakes his head, tsking at him. “What did I just say?”

“I’m not a cat,” Stiles says. “And you’re not going to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Peter says. “If you keep wasting my time, I’m not sure I can be held responsible for any homicidal urges.”

“Very funny,” Stiles says. “Look, I came here to say thank you.”

Peter’s eyebrows rise almost to his hairline.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Unexpected, I know. Don’t get used to it. And for the record, I still don’t trust you.”

“Really?” Peter asks, a mild reprimand.

“Come on,” Stiles says. “You know I’m not that stupid. Still, thank you. For everything. You know.”

Peter keeps staring at him. Stiles clears his throat. “That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Peter repeats blankly.

“What, did you expect flowers?” Stiles says.

“Not exactly, no.”

“Right. Okay, so I’ll be going then. Bye.” Stiles flees.

He’s almost made it to the front door when Peter grips his shoulders, spins him around and shoves him against the wall, pinning him there with a grip around his wrists that he barely feels.

“Are you _sure_ that this is all you came here for?” Peter asks. 

The offer is there, in his eyes, in the way he lets his gaze wander from Stiles’ lips down to his crotch where Stiles is half-hard in his pants. He can’t help it; the promise is too blatant and too tempting to ignore. “Pretty sure,” Stiles says. “Thanks, but no.”

“You know Derek is not going to give you what you want,” Peter says. “He’s not going to hold you down and fuck you until you beg for mercy. His tastes are a lot more vanilla than mine.”

“I know,” Stiles says. “I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong, the slightly kinky sex is fun and all, but it’s not all I’m interested in. I’m in love with him. I’m not in love with you.”

Peter’s hold around his wrist tightens a deliberate action. The sensation borders deliciously on painful. “I could _make_ you fall in love with me.”

A part of Stiles believes him, and the realization is more than a little scary. “Please don’t,” he says. “No, really, do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?”

Peter throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Stiles. I like you. Whenever you get bored of what my nephew has to offer, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “Glad we could clear this up.”

Peter lets go of him and takes a step back. “Do me a favor, don’t let yourself get abducted again.”

“No,” Stiles says. “I won’t.”

 

****

XXIX

On Saturday afternoon, Stiles finds the door to the loft unlocked and slides it open. “Derek?”

Footsteps on the iron staircase, then Derek’s face appears, adorned by a slight frown.

“Hi,” Stiles says. “I brought you something.” He lifts the box with cookies he spent the whole morning making, three different kinds, his mother’s recipe, and he would have tried for something fancier if he hadn’t thought it would make him look desperate. He opens the lid of the box and puts it on the counter. “Peanut butter chocolate chip. Raspberry and white chocolate. And apple cinnamon with brown sugar on top. Try them.”

The cookies work like a charm. Stiles watches Derek take a sniff, then approach with cautious steps. He feels like a hunter whose unaware prey is about to take the bait. Derek reaches the counter and stares down at the cookies, still frowning.

“Try one,” Stiles presses. “Really, they’re good.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Why are you bringing me cookies?”

“They’re ‘thank you’ cookies,” Stiles says. “And ‘sorry for messing up’ cookies. And if you need to know the truth, they’re also ‘I want you to like me’ cookies, but I’m aware that you can’t buy someone’s affection with gifts, so let’s just forget about that one, for now.”

Derek looks at him, then at the cookies, in confusion. “Thanks,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Stiles says, and resists the urge to shuffle his feet. “And no, Peter didn’t get any of these.”

Derek snorts and picks a peanut butter cookie. He takes a small bite, titlting his head to the side as he chews. “You’re right, they’re good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, instead of the ‘told you so’ that’s on the tip of his tongue, and watches him devour the whole cookie in three more bites.

This was the easy part. He takes a deep breath. "Now that you’ve accepted my gift, here comes the catch.” Derek freezes with his hand trapped inside the box. He slowly pulls it out again with a slightly betrayed expression. Wounded, as if he really thought cookies would come without a price. Stiles can’t help but smile at him. „I was wondering, would you like to be my boyfriend?”

"Your – what?”

"Boyfriend. You know, when two guys like each other very much...”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts him.

“I can’t speak for you, of course,” Stiles says. “But in case you’re wondering, I do. Like you, I mean.” Derek stares at him, and Stiles can’t read him at all. Stiles clears his throat. „The thing is, what I didn’t tell you is that Deaton said that the wolfsbane wouldn’t have worked on us the way it did if we hadn’t already been attracted to each other.”

Derek’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Believe me, I know,” Stiles says, wincing in sympathy. „But the important thing is, it’s mutual. Which raises the question –” 

"Stiles –” 

"Anyway,” Stiles says. „At first I thought it was only about sex, because that night totally screwed with my head – don’t say it – and I liked you before, but not like this. I want to have sex with you, but I also want to, you know, bake cookies for you, and fall asleep with my head in your lap, and have you pick me up for dates and invite you over for dinner and skype with you while I’m supposed to study for my math exam. And feeling like that, it really scares the shit out of me.” 

He wets his lips, watching Derek with rapt attention. „You drive me crazy. But I have no idea what you want, and I’m kinda scared you’re going to tell me ‘no’ because you don’t actually want me back, no matter what Deaton says, or because you think I’m too young, or too annoying – ”

"What I think,” Derek says roughly, and Stiles stumbles over his next words and falls silent, “is that you need to stop and calm down before you talk yourself into a panic attack.”

Stiles stares at him. “...Okay,” he says after a second and his voice sounds small, somehow. He bites his lips. Looks like he got his answer after all. He can’t hold Derek’s gaze any longer. He’s starting to feel a little numb. “I was just building up to the good parts, you know? All my sordid teenage fantasies, I had this whole speech prepared..."

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles raises his eyes by default. He catches Derek’s gaze, warm and dark and knowing, and before he can start to make sense of it, Derek shakes his head and takes a step toward him. “You really need to shut up,” Derek tells him and covers his mouth with his own.

Stiles falls into the kiss like he falls into anything else, flailing and awkward, and then Derek backs him against the counter and frames his face with both hands. That’s better, because Stiles can put his arms around him and just kiss him back.

Derek bites his bottom lip. Stiles makes an embarrassing, mewling sound. Peter has obviously been wrong because Derek’s kisses are nothing short of demanding, and yes, Stiles can absolutely work with that. And with Derek’s dick, hard and hot against his thigh, making him want to do everything at once.

Derek’s fingers tangle into his belt loops, pulling them flush together. Stiles gasps, pushing against him. His hands find the edge of the counter to hold himself upright as his knees are getting weaker by the second. “ _Can_ I buy your affection with cookies?”

“No,” Derek says with a lopsided smile, one that makes something hot and dangerous tighten in Stiles’ gut. Derek’s hands are on his ass, squeezing, then they move to the back of his thighs, and Stiles is unceremoniously lifted from the floor. He throws his arms and legs around Derek, laughing as Derek carries him toward the bed. He lands on his back and Derek is on him a second later. Stiles kisses him. Derek kisses back, one hand cupping his face, the gentle touch at odds with the way he’s grappling with Stiles’ belt with the other.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Stiles asks. He lifts his hips eagerly, letting Derek pull off his pants and his briefs.

“I’m going to blow you, and then I’m going to fuck you,” Derek says. “And then, when you’re done being a sex-obsessed little _brat_ , we’re going to _talk_ about this.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay.” His head hits the pillow as Derek’s fingers close around his dick, and he’s cries out as Derek’s lips close around him, warm and wet and greedy. His eyes roll back in his head. He’s a trembling mess. “Derek. Please.” 

Anything that comes after that is even less coherent, a garbled jumble of praise and cussing. Derek doesn’t seem to mind. He just doubles his efforts until Stiles gives up trying to hold out and just lets go, coming into Derek’s mouth after barely a minute. It’s wrecking him, the force of it, the way Derek swallows around him and holds him inside his mouth while Stiles is softening, over-sensitive and satisfied. 

“God, fuck. That was...” He’s lacking the words. And even if he had them, he doesn’t want to say anything, caught in the afterglow. 

Derek is slowly sliding upward, lifting his head to look at Stiles. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and slides a hand through his hair, because he can, because it’s so soft under his fingers, and spreads his legs for Derek’s questing fingers. 

Minutes later, he’s on his stomach, and Derek slides inside him, slow and steady. “Please,” Stiles whispers, pushing back against him.

“Shh,” Derek whispers, moving in deep, unhurried strokes. Stiles can feel himself drifting closer and closer to the edge with barely any effort at all. All he has to do is lie there and let Derek do all the work. Derek’s skin on his, hot and sticky, Derek’s scent all around him. Stiles closes his eyes, moaning as Derek pushes in again. 

“Please,” he whispers, nothing left in his mind but this, _this_. “Derek, God, please –”

He comes with Derek’s hand on his dick, stroking him to completion. He empties himself all over the sheets with a breathy moan. Seconds later, Derek stills inside of him and shudders, hands clutching at Stiles’ arms. Stiles just lets himself relax, turning his head to the side so he can breathe while Derek sinks down onto him, dead weight but a deliciously warm and solid presence. 

At some point, Derek slides off and lies down beside him. Stiles turns to his side, then on his back. He’s warm, comfortable, exhausted. 

“So, does that mean you’re actually going to be my boyfriend?” he asks, just to say something.

“If you want to,” Derek says, sounding weirdly hesitant. Stiles opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. It has a confusing pattern of wood and concrete. It’s too high. Ceilings shouldn’t be that high.

“If _I_ want to?” he asks slowly. “It was my idea.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, “But we don’t have to, if you don’t – I mean, we could keep this casual.”

Stiles feels cold. He sits up slowly. “Is that what you want?”

Derek sits up too. “I didn’t say that. I just –” He’s looking at Stiles almost pleadingly, as if he’s expecting him to get it, just read his mind or something. “I was just trying to say, you don’t have to –”

“Don’t have to _what_ ,” Stiles says, and for some reason, he’s shaking, trying to keep his voice steady. He can’t quite meet Derek’s eyes, positively terrified of anything he might see.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Don’t – you’re getting this wrong.” His hand comes up to touch Stiles’ face, and Stiles almost shies away, but then Derek’s thumb is sliding over his cheek, so tenderly. ” Derek says. “I was only trying to – Stiles, you’re so young.” 

“If you’re trying to say is that I’m too young to know what I want –”

“No,” Derek says. 

“Then what?” Stiles says, and he just hopes he’s not sounding as uncertain as he feels.

“I don’t want – I don’t want to keep you from things you might want to experience,” Derek says, sounding somehow like a guidance counselor. “You were a virgin just a week ago.”

“So?” Stiles says. 

“Stiles,” Derek says. “You’d never had sex before. You said it yourself, that night screwed with your head. It’s only natural if you want to experiment – if you want different things –”

“Oh,” Stiles says, slowly getting an inkling of what it is that Derek’s trying to tell him. “You think that I’m –” some kind of sex maniac, probably, or into hardcore BDSM.

“Um,” Derek says. 

It’s not a far-fetched thought, not really. After all, there’s – well, there’s this one crazy night of drug-induced passion, and then there’s this temporary insanity of his encounter with Peter – yeah, it’s not too difficult to see where Derek is coming from. “Okay,” Stiles says. “Let me get this straight. You’re not saying that you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”

“No,” Derek says. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“But you think I’m too young.”

“I _know_ you’re too young,” Derek says, then grimaces. He lets his hands drop. 

“But that’s not the reason why you were suggesting buddyfucking,” Stiles says and Derek visibly cringes but shakes his head. “Right. You want to be my boyfriend, _even though_ you think I’m too young,” Stiles says, and Derek nods, apparently relieved that Stiles is putting it into words in his stead. “But you’re afraid that I’m – what, confused? Ignorant? – about what I really want?” 

Derek sighs and scratches his beard. “I just don’t want to be the one holding you back. From finding out what you want. Trying new things.”

Stiles stares at him, thoughts spinning. “I thought – I thought I could try new things _with you._ Don’t get me wrong, I want sex, lots of it, all kinds of sex, but I want it with you, no one else.” Derek looks doubtful, opening his mouth for a reply, and Stiles shakes his head, smiling at him, a part of him marveling at his own audacity. “I’m not going to change my mind anytime soon. I’m not saying never, because, you know, divorce rates, bad break-ups - it happens, no matter how hard people try. I can’t promise _forever_ or something, but neither can you.”

“Fair enough,” Derek says. 

“I don’t _want_ to sleep with other people. If you say no, it’ll just go back home and it will be me and internet porn and my hand.” And his dildo. Possibly. “Do _you_ want me to sleep with other people?”

“ _No_ ,” Derek growls, then looks briefly abashed. He clears his throat. 

“Then what do you want?” Stiles asks, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to follow it up with another bout of words, he just looks at Derek, feeling both stupidly hopeful and helplessly afraid. 

Derek looks at him, his eyes growing soft. “What I’ve wanted for a while now. _You_.”

Stiles’ breath catches. He laughs, dizzy with relief, the world spinning around him. “That’s so cheesy. And just for the record, you’re a total dick. To think I baked you cookies -”

He doesn’t resist as Derek pulls him close, kissing him on the lips, nosing at his jaw. Stiles throws his arms around him, holding on. “So, does that mean –”

Derek sighs, Stiles can feel it, the expanding of Derek’s chest right against his body, and he can just imagine the way Derek rolls his eyes at him. “Yes, Stiles.”

Which is perfectly sufficient for the time being, though he vows to himself that he’s going to make Derek say it. Soon. 

“Right then. Boyfriends it is,” Stiles says, and then, before he can say anything else, Derek steals his breath with a kiss. 

 

****

XXX

“Okay,” Stiles announces on Monday morning, seeing Scott lift his head and look at him with an expression of wounded betrayal. “Here’s another rule for you. You’re not allowed to comment on the way I smell.”

“But –”

“No ‘but’,” Stiles says. “It’s bad enough that you know when I’ve had sex, I don’t need you to whine about it. It’s not your business. Put a clothespin on your nose or whatever, I don’t care.”

“It’s just – it’s weird,” Scott says. “You and Derek and sex, together – I can’t help it, but that’s kinda wrong.” It clearly pains him to even say it.

“Get used to it,” Stiles tells him. “Remind yourself, it could be worse. It could be Peter.”

There’s a long, meaningful silence.

“You know, I’m absolutely in support of your life choices,” Scott says at last. “You and Derek, you’re just ... perfect for each other. I’m absolutely in favor of a happy, faithful long-term relationship.”

“Scotty, my man, I knew you’d see it my way,” Stiles says and pats him jovially on the back, hoping that Scott will never now just how close that particular nightmare was to coming true. In retrospect, it feels like he’s taken the right turn just in time to avoid an absolute trainwreck.

“As long as you’re happy,” Scott says and Stiles grins at him, knowing with sudden clarity, yes, that's _exactly_ what he is.


End file.
